A Room of My Own

Nov 2 2011

I began by knocking down walls.

As if light

could purify the building

let me see clear.

Every direction

out.

What goes on in a house

behind closed doors,

the ghosts of owners past

the taint

of unhappiness.

A warren of small dark rooms

and narrow hallways

heavy with stale air.

I imagined dead rodents

the urine of cats.

I would not go so far as to raise the roof,

yet never feel confined

in this ample space

this cozy room.

Glass, floor-to-ceiling

kept fastidiously clean,

so I can barely distinguish

in from out.

Life in a tree-house,

all green and dappled light

the palette of seasons.

Birdsong, at sunrise.

But in the still of night

inhuman sounds

under cover of dark.

An owl, perhaps;

but I picture something fierce and black

stalking

through shifting shadows.

Hard woods, flat finish,

soft salmon

sanded brick.

One grand room

open concept, simple plan,

a single man’s

modest castle.

Because when I was a kid

my bedroom was shared,

wedged up against the roof

in a small thin-walled duplex.

Cookie-cutter homes

that welcomed soldiers

back from war.

Because we all need a room of our own,

and get there, eventually.

Looking out, content in my aerie

of soaring glass

expansive vistas.

And free to look in,

no slouching beast

no hidden secrets.

But in the dead of night

inquisitive eyes

can see clear through.

Will I drop the blinds, kill the lights,

vanish

into blackness?

It’s surprising how windows conceal

as much as they give,

reflect, as well as transmit.

According to your own

inclination,

the angle

sunlight falls.

A building, a house, a home.

It all depends

on seeing through walls.