It is four-walled, my room.
A window sealed with glass
closed in with space
defined by brick and lime.
A room, not distinctive
like any other you can find
in a suburban house
sitting pretty on a tree-lined street.
There was a time when the walls were real,
separating my room from all else in the house.
Walls enclosed a space for me to dream
they sliced the house to give me respite.
And the door: the door was the most charming bit,
like a magician’s wand, it made fairies appear.
Every time it closes, the room lights up
and all my companions glide out quietly –
from behind the gossamer curtains and the old sofa
with the flower design they emerge
cautious and watchful,
around the lampshade and out of the shelves they fly
with slow flapping wings that softly make music.
And they do something
that none other in the house did:
they speak to me
in a language I know.
We settle into spaces
wall-less and abundant
open to the sky and fields
into sunshine and rainy days.
In that boundless space
of no rules and dictates
I spread my hair and whistle a tune
shed my clothes and stretch my arms
I am neither woman nor man
nor is my unbranded skin
dark, wheatish or brown,
nor am I fat or slim, beautiful or plain
Neither elite nor middle-class or poor,
not urban or rural, simpleton or smart,
neither silent nor eloquent
with nothing to be adored or despised.
As I dance on shells and moults
with fairies who sing my language
I look in the mirror on the wall
and see not the fairest of them all
but me, who does not belong to walls anymore.