One in Five
He came to me at dusk
on school tracks
lit up and vacuous
and now I can’t drive by schools
without feeling the cut of his gaping fly against
then my ankle
like a mosquito
gnawing my skin.
I was standing with prison in view
from his rooms, my clothes
binding my chin.
I believed my windows were locked. Clothes piled for wash
kept me from seeing his footprint on the quilt my grandmother
sewed with Argentella lace.
One too many Boston sours mixed
out of sight. One too many belts
on my wrists. Turnbuckles
caught behind the headboard.
Lakes don’t hide sharks. The deck left marks.
Any kind of wave-like motion brings to mind
his face. Even sleep
has such sharp teeth.
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