And you were breathless in the laundry room.
Hiding behind a closet door, ajar. Listening
for him to take the cellar stairs. Is it possible he was frightened
he might kill you? You could see his shoes through the strip
between hinges, high tops that looked innocent even
when he kicked you. Rounded rubber
at the toes is stiff, can bruise a shin, thigh
—hell, what’s not soft enough to blacken
when you’re twenty-four. Your ears, eyes
are accurate, are keen and clear. You stare
at green laces wrapped over his ankles.
Horses drown in the molasses time
that floods a shadow-tinted room.
Until his fear spins him around
and up the cement stairs, a chemical wind
rising to find some spark to fire it. Three flights up
he sprints but you just need to gain one floor
to leave. You just need one story
and it isn’t his.