Writing by Catherine Maskill
Pictured: Martin Wall
Whiskey and old
tobacco meet lavender
perfume and the stench
of the disinfectant bowl.
Heavy sea green, pea green
curtains ('the owl and the pussycat
went to sea') thick with dust,
invisible but for beams of sunlight,
which illuminate the mass of debris
floating in the room.
He tells you,
"it's all dead skin".
You don't believe him.
"All dust is dead skin", he says.
You slam your hands
over your mouth.
He laughs so hard
that he needs the oxygen.
Afterwards, you wonder if
he is choking
on all the dead skin.
He assures you he isn't.
You breathe it in, moving
your mouth like a fish.
You feel heavier with every breath.
'They' take an x-ray of his tired, full lungs
whilst early morning
condensation snakes a path
down the grimy glass.
In some places, the stained lace
curtain clings to the window.
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