wallpaper maker's lover

i know it is selfish but i look for myself
in the designs. the great scroll unspooling
from the wrack. he wipes his palms
on his apron. runs a hand through
his hair. the sun enters barefoot
in the spring. i tell no one that i come
to watch him. sit in the crooked chair
while he repeats the same symbols 
over & over. arabesque & apple. they always
look like bodies to me. our bodies.
a bent knee. his curly hair. he has never
seen my home. how could he? it is small.
a rented room. how could i explain
bringing another man quietly into 
my darkness? instead, we have this place.
his workshop. the repetition of our lives 
is like that of the wallpaper. never quite 
perfect. a faded arm. an off-kilter print.
the ink stains. we have to meet before 
his workers arrive. the apprentices & 
the laborers. their aprons, just like his. 
once, a boy came too early, found 
the workshop door locked. i had never seen
him so fearful. we redressed, his face
still flushed. he whispered, "pretend
you are eyeing the designs." i understood.
he wanted me to act as if i were
a customer. i did not need to pretend
my desires. i dream often of 
my lover & i re-doing the wallpaper 
of my room. him smoothing down 
the edges of a fresh design. the wallpaper
in my room is horrible. dull. not made
by hands like his. he has asked me before
if i would like to be his apprentice. 
it would after all give us more excuses
to be behind doors together. i have always
turned him down though. i don't want
to ruin the magic of it. how he can spin 
an image over & over. cloak rooms
in his brilliant mirages. instead,
i will keep searching for myself in them. 
my back arched. his hand on my hip.