The House is Not My Home (Lorraine)

I'd only take what's at my fingertips,
My purse maybe, my wallet or my phone.
Prosaic, useful things could make it with:
I live here, but the house is not my home.

 I've left my pieces all over Berlin,
My treasures in a dumpster by the Dom,
The gutters, where I hid my favourite ring;
Of anywhere, the house is not my home.

 My photos are two continents away,
And not for lack of love that they are gone––
I loved them far too much for them to stay.
I threw away the house that's not my home.

 Whatever's on my back, I am my own,
And am my world. The house is not my home.

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Also for the workshop exercise: what object would you save from your home in a disaster?

My Grandmother’s Glasses (Stefana)

My Grandmother’s Glasses

We’re on the bed, the windows swung open,

salty air invading our nostrils and waves crashing in our ears. 

Darkness is creeping across the floor, 

but there’s still light on the bed we’re on. 

The book is reflected in my grandmother’s glasses 

as she reads to me about small wolf boys and toads. 

We’re on the bed, with a red snow sky outside. 

The room is dark, and we’re watching Gone with the Wind, 

under the covers, enveloped in the smell of melilot. 

The light of the story is reflected in my grandmother’s glasses. 

I still cannot read

The bed is now empty. 

The air is heavy and it won’t reach my lungs. 

It blocks my windpipe and puts a stagger in my walk. 

The hallway engulfs me in its darkness, and I fumble
for my grandmother’s glasses. 

We need to leave, we need to leave. 

But how can we leave if we can’t see?

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This was part of the workshop exercise - what object would you save from your house, if you were leaving it behind, following a cataclysm?