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Picture 10034101, © Manuel Cohen / Mary Evans

No longer my house
by Noa Smith

 

This is no longer my house
Specifically it is no longer my parents
One dead, one moving on
21 years of memories
Faded into the paint
Bleaching the carpet I rest on,
Memories old enough to vote
To drink
To go to war
To die too young
Memories to be packed up
Scraped off the walls
Lost into hidden nooks
Collecting with the dust
Made of my skin
That too has passed its use,
The bricks held me as mortar
I had been primed
Moulded into the walls
Now ossified, I am solid, aged,
So brittle now I cannot be
Snapped clean from this house
Without shattering,
We are to leave
In parts
Boxes
Stacked neatly in a lorry
To be reconfigured
Made sense of
Remembered
Somewhere new

 
 
© Noa Smith 2025
 
 
Picture 10034101, © Manuel Cohen / Mary Evans
 
 
Noah Smith poet
Writer and artist also
London home and blood

More of Noa’s writing can be found on his substack: Noa’s Writing

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