Mary's Attic

The scent of the attic in evening-light 

demands much of the imagination 

to reproduce. “Thrill” is too worn a word 

to express the passionate liaisons 

of the body that took place there. Evening 

was when the lover visited, always 

scented faintly of turpentine. Touching 

her, the world seemed to fill that narrow space

wherein thoughts were always clearer—so clear,

the call to fasten your mouth to hers—

clearer still, the reasons for your being 

there together—attached, necessary—

those base, animal instincts that became 

less and more animal, both. Two years passed,

unremarkable. From the dim corner 

of a different room in evening alone

you strain to conjure those yet fainter scents—

turpentine and evening-light, the beloved’s

blushing face turning to conceal the new, 

unbearable twist of pleasure you gave. 

You were young once. You loved. With rapacious 

abandon. You lived in a high attic 

with excellent light, windows that opened 

to the gardens and wide river below.

World seemed to fill that narrow space. I know.

I lived there once, was also young. I loved

and gave up the attic space, found a room   

in another city with dim corners 

I crawl to for evening remembrances 

of attic-light and youth, and foolish love.