Skye Wilson: 2 Poems

Demolishing a Kitchen Wall with My Dad and His New Girlfriend

As if it holds something contagious, 
the room is sealed with tape, and Dad gives me 
a mask. We are unsure where to start, but Karen 
has a brush poised to sweep every moment 
of mess away. Dad balances on a stool, braces 

the pneumatic hammer, shoves it hard 
into the clean whiteness. In my hands it stutters
at first, but soon hits smoothly. He compliments 
my de-plastering, the ease with which I crack 
and drop the façade to reveal the roughness underneath. 
Karen sweeps even as the dust begins to drop.

The toughest bricks are the top two rows. Some split 
in half, showing mould-black bellies. Others shatter 
altogether; some refuse to separate. Karen and I port
them to the window, drop them out, and she stacks 
them neatly into piles while dad and I continue battling. 

The light switch cord swings loosely above 
the wall, now waist high. Together, we pull down 
the doorframe, tear it into separate planks 
of wood and crooked nails. The last brick is stubborn, 
so I drive the hammer harder, and water starts to quietly 
spurt from the heating pipe we never knew was there. 

Cooking

I will reel you in 
with snacks and silence, 
keep you comfortable until 
you let me scrape your skin off 
scale by scale, slowly lower what’s left 
of you to my kitchen counter, helpless. I will
prise open your ribcage’s osseous matter, pull out 
all of your unpleasantness, slice out your spine, remove 
any gore that remains, fill you instead with lemongrass and love.

Skye Wilson is a glittery, rugby-playing feminist from Scotland. She is working towards an MSc in Creative Writing at Edinburgh University. She is forthcoming in Detritus and From Arthur’s Seat. Skye is extremely bisexual and loves ugly shirts, and poems about fear, hope, and belonging. Her pronouns are she/her.