I have found the poetry in this house

I have found the poetry in this house,
sunk my fingers deep between the gaps
as if they were slabs of ginger cake.

While you tapped eggs on the rim of a bowl
one handed, I knocked the stones open
with a toffee hammer, pulled out liquorice
sentences like stray hairs from batter.

I have struck a pen to it like a tuning fork
listened to windows wolf-whistling at night,
while I lick royal icing from the wall
until my tongue hits marzipan.

Then you fold up your secrets
in a Swiss-roll carpet,
butter palms slip from the spoon,
the peppermint-cream ceiling melts
by morning we are at odds again.

Standing in the candy-can doorway
feet crunching on Demerara gravel
you say: ‘It’s nothing’
with glazé eyes and curdled breath.