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My walls grow fur, plush velveteen.
Come, brush your palms down my lush passageway.
The fridge hums greenly. Om. A mossy stone.
No chrome, no gloss. Soft emerald coat,
inside, a crystal frost. Such sprouting surfaces.
Footsteps are muffled here. Take off your shoes.
Walk softly. Let the nap and pile of unswept floors
caress your feet.
It’s only human, dust. A drift of it, snow settling, pollenfall.
My razorblade blunts quietly, rust blossoms on its edge.
My armpits lose their line, grow dark and tender foliage.
The body’s smoothness shadowed, all angles made diffuse.
I am a slow, warm creature in a secret house.
The white facade blinks at the sun.
My forests sway.
Come in, there is no spirit level here.
Isobel Dixon grew up in South Africa, where her prize-winning debut Weather Eye was published. Her poems have appeared in The Paris Review, The Guardian, The Manhattan Review and Southwest Review, among others. Her work is included in several anthologies, including The Forward Book of Poetry 2009. Her latest collection, A Fold in the Map, is published by Salt. www.isobeldixon.com.
