The Attic

I’ve finished my mural of you naked,

and only I will see it.

The sun streams through the skylight,

lighting your face, your breasts.

I lie in the hammock remembering

the afternoon hours I spent with you

up here, where no one goes.

We’d have Van Morrison singing

low down, and sometimes wine.

Always there’d be a vase of flowers

in the corner, on the trunk –

you’d smuggle them up the stairs

until you closed that black door

and the rest of the house wasn’t there.

I remember the day we fell asleep

until they came looking for us –

my mother calling my name,

but not coming up. We waited

till all was quiet, then reappeared

in the living room, and sat apart,

like we had to, for half an hour –

the longest you spent down there –

then I went with you to the door.

I wouldn’t accompany you to the busstop,

instead went back upstairs

to lie there in the growing dark,

listening to Van over and over again.

I must have known you’d never return.

It was weeks before I started the mural,

and I took my time, I wanted you there,

on my wall, right in every detail,

looking as if I could lift you down.

I wanted you, and now I’ve got you

and you’ll never go downstairs.

Tomorrow I’ll paint a vase of flowers,

irises, to match your eyes,

but tonight I’m sleeping here,

the first night I’ll have spent with you.

-- Matthew Sweeney, from A Smell of Fish