Rowan Lyster

            I suggest a fun night out, in which we will visit 

            and destroy a series of homes. It seems proper 

            to begin with the mansion, which, of course,

            we burn down. From below the ha-ha,

            we watch inhabitants flee in dressing gowns. 

            Despite the flames reflected in your eyes, 

            you lack a certain zeal. We move on 

            to more conceptual methods: 

            ant eggs in the curtain linings,

            floodlights installed outside bedroom windows,

            disheartening messages daubed on walls.

            We deal with colleagues, and then friends. 

            You sleep with someone else’s husband; 

            I steal a newborn and exchange it for a cabbage.

            Our family homes are less of a challenge 

            than might have been expected.

            Through the letterbox, a manila envelope 

            containing a warning note and new passports.

            At dawn, when nobody else is left,

            you bundle yourself into a cupboard,

            duct-tape your own mouth and ankles

            while I take a clawhammer to the fuse box,

            block the sink and leave the tap running,

            finding a little peace in the knowledge

            that I did everything I could to help.