Through the Skylight by Deborah Swain
Cover art by Lucienne
Dorrance
24 pp., 2003
Through the skylight
in a slate roof
slick with rain—
the bright blob
of a shade-less bulb
blotches my retinas
with its phosphorescent echo.
I steer it across
the inside of my eyelids,
chasing its elusive colours,
but cannot blink it away.
Like a film
I project it over
the blind stare of the house
& light up the windows
of each deserted room—
a mischievous ghost
flicking on switches,
mimicking lifetime habits.
The garden backs onto ours.
Pink roses drop
petals on the lawn.
Making love
then making toast
one Sunday morning
they caught a glimpse of
other people,
rather like themselves,
long before
they got to know each other
intimately.
The locked bedroom
was painted the colour
of a magpie’s clutch
—a speckled eggshell blue.
The night he pounded
his head against walls
built of brick
he really believed
he would smash his way
through delicate chalky tissue
& find only glutinous goo
the other side.
Then he’d swim his escape!
They found him
the next morning
in the eggshell blue room
—speckled red.
He had smashed a way out
of sorts.