A Poem from NITASHA- my friend

The House I’ll Soon Give Up
Property is theft, so I rent
flats over cities, views.
I rent spaces in time.
I’m moving, yet again.
Mortgage is a death-pledge.
They talk on this island of
property ladders as if dwellings
were meant to perch precariously
in a climbing moneyed space.
There are ladders in old attics,
in dusty libraries, on pasted
cardboard games where snakes
can bite. I climb some
in my dreams.


I’m moving, yet again.
The market is good to sell
I was told, I must go.
Market is a myth, a metaphor,
an undying illusion you see
of radical commensurability.
No line between people and things,
only capital’s calculability. Imagine
there’s no housing market, try.
Bazaars are markets. I visit some
in my dreams.


I’m moving, yet again.
Afraid of memory, of standing
too long by windows and doors,
of creaking floors that tell me
I’m here in the now. I want
no place to be mine, no haunt to
possess, deprive, appropriate me.
Memory re-members, tries to belong.
Restless, the leaf, still mounts
the wind. I am one
in my dreams.













00 nsonhi