One in Five

I.

He came to me at dusk

on school tracks

lit up and vacuous

and now I can’t drive by schools

in summer

without feeling the cut of his gaping fly against

my hip

then my ankle

like a mosquito

gnawing my skin.

II.

I was standing with prison in view

from his rooms, my clothes

binding my chin.

III.

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.

IV.

One too many Boston sours mixed

out of sight. One too many belts

on my wrists. Turnbuckles

caught behind the headboard.

V.

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.