Lisa Mansell

“Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there. ” ― Aleksandar Hemon. 
 
 

Am I still here? 
Do you see me 
notch the oxide sunset 
like an ancient etching? 
 
I’ve always hunched here, under rain  
or low-scud cloud– 

 heard distant Hanley goose-honks; 
watched unhusked skinheads 
in a drunken slump stumble to 
their midnight dhansak shank 
 
and I used to dream of gathering the crazed hem 
of my brick-skirt  (a drey of cindered mesh 
that cloisters my nesh in winter) 

to waltz at the moon in blousy damask 
and tease the bone-ash stars: 
to fang their quartzy flux. 
 
If I could speak 
I would talk in round vowels 
of wom and dome, 

and I’d ask you to stay– 

but my throat is damp with rain 
without the rasp of caulk-smoke 
from my clayfire belly. 
 
If you must leave me, then do it quick 
before you see me untruss myself 
brick by brick  
’til I am just a spill of sheeded powder 
whispered on history’s lips  
like a cipher. 

 
Do you see me? 
Am I still here?