Intimacy (or the lack thereof)
In my house there were no gates
I never heard a slamming door,
Or ever needed to unlock it.
The draught nuzzled the living room
Forcing secrets out of their hiding places.
In my house stillness was an amalgam
Of toys, murmurs and deep coughs.
Attempts to whisper into the telephone,
To each new, exotic love.
We split age and raffled outlooks
Babbling endless palavers
Dared the elder with trendy highlights
The youngster with the croquettes.
Open the blinds in the morning,
Include the neighbours as well
This club has no secret entry
This life has no key for access.
No space sufficed to feel lonely
Everywhere, eyes gazed to spot any lie
A line of heads peaked over the couch’s horizon
A blend of smells bemused the targets of desire.
In my house there was no permission,
But invitations
The lack of uncomfortable silence came from no
Silence at all
No unforeseen skills, no thrilling surprises
Just a collective routine
And a familiar course.
One last time let’s bring our beds side to side,
Let’s rub our cold feet together
Allow a polyphony of fairy tales
To ease us to sleep among the missing pillows.
© Cecilia Padilla-Iglesias, 2021
