Poem by Ciara MacLaverty
I refuse to put up net curtains or Venetian blinds.
Lying in bed, my gaze falls on cement coloured sky.
I drink in January's daylight - vacant and flat
as a day old glass of water.
Through the bare trees, fluorescent light
glows sallow from your windows.
I see flickering computer screens, wipe-clean memo boards,
an occasional, bald man wearing glasses.
I can almost smell the photocopier;
sense the quiet comfort
of everyday purpose.
Can any of you see me?
I suspect my body is clearer than my face;
the daily ramp under the duvet,
a forearm glimpsed by the bedside lamp.
It's been years. I'm embarrassed; I want to explain.
I don't care; I shouldn't have to explain.
I wait for May's leaves to unfurl once more;
the explosion of green that keeps us
obscured from each other.
I will throw open my top floor window
and lie in a carpeted pool of sunlight.
Summer will smell sweet on my limbs
and only birds and airplanes will see my naked skin.