the walls are moving. tumbling walls falling.
i undo the home. i break the skeleton, the back-
bone. foundation alone could move mountains.
i shake it up. take it apart. kiss a side, turn it
inside out. plop it face down on the ground.
lie on it. give it warmth. i loosen the screws
of every single piece of furniture i ever owned.
teak table, chairs. oak trees chiseled in drawers
stuffed with pale pink things. i pile up wood
and spunk, can’t say i would know where to find
fuel. i tug at blackout curtains, rip a piece of lace
from the edge of the soaked hot night, stuff it
in my mouth, sing, sing my voice to a full-stop.
Photo credit: Frederic Sahyouni
Meryem Yildiz is a Turkish-Canadian poet from Tiohtià:ke (Montreal) whose work has appeared in publications across Canada. In 2022, she won The Malahat Review’s Far Horizons Award for Poetry as well as the Quebec Writers’ Federation’s carte blanche Prize. Her debut collection, Backbone, will be published by Guernica Editions in 2025.
