two cartons, contents -
one hundred and sixty four books,
three posters, two paintings,
and one ceramic owl;
three suitcases of clothes,
a lifetime of jewellery;
one pressure cooker
(with two weights, just-in-case),
three pots, one pan and a spatula –
all non-stick, of course.
four flights of demanding stairs,
(“it’s actually only three and a half”
the broker had promised).
Past the genial uncle with trembling keys,
and a door that wouldn’t cooperate
with his old hands;
who weave through her legs,
caught in a tense game of ‘cho-pohleec’.
Her laboured breath mingles with the heat
from the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
The sunlight throws a mango tinted spotlight
on the dust
that dances in on the back of the hot summer breeze,
and she knows,
She is home.