These apartments are all beautifully maintained.
One of them is in my husband’s name.
I saunter away along the top floor
& see the old woman
with grease baked onto her gas cooker.
I did know other people would be living here:
it stands to reason.
she gazes out at the brick wall, stubbornly.
There is a much better view from the other side
of the building.
I don’t remember these stairs. Pitched steeply,
winding back on themselves, leading nowhere
purposefully. Likely back stairs for servants
But there are no servants. Any more.
takes a shower in his jerry-built bathroom.
His haunches twitch. He soaps between his legs.
leave their door open? I don’t want to have to see into their rooms.
At last! The main staircase with that insolent, laconic curve.
& this friend of a friend
strides past me, three treads at a time – before I can find
breath to speak. Or lift a hand. He has come to live here:
found this house. He doesn’t seem to know I live here too.
We all live here. Well well. We’ll meet in the rose garden
adjacent to the fountain. Or he will reach for the knocker
to let it fall & boom inside the entrance hall as I approach
the porte-cochère.
He’ll turn and say – It’s you!
This is the staircase I have been looking for.
A cunning flight of stairs behind a secret door.
& here is my room after all. Four walls. But -
When I wake up I still believe in this house
my room: I plan to furnish it. & what to write.
—Jennifer Compton
____
from Parker & Quink (Ginninderra Press, 2004)