It takes a while for me to notice the new prison bars on the windows and the locked external doors. Somewhere in the house the radio is playing a protest song. And from the couch a voice arises, full of hushed reverence for the unthinkable, giving armchairs permission to tear down old décor. Dry scuffing sounds are a prelude to massacres. Whispering wardrobes echo the ottoman’s fear mongering. Beds turn against beds, stripping mattresses bare. In the hallway I walk in on the tail end of another fight, the combatants scattering, a vase left shattered, glistening obscenely. I open the refrigerator, and leaning inside I say, we need to talk. The coat-rack feels safe with the house the way it is. The bathtub cannot imagine any other way of being. The water tank in the attic lives with a draining sadness, it sees no point in trying to change anything. I cannot stand still. All my mirrors look to me for rescue. Knives rattle in a kitchen drawer; it is in their nature to crave carnage. With one hand I still a clanging wind chime.
