Poem For The Tenant

The sound of plate glass breaking,
or worse, the sound of glass
withstanding the first assault.

It is something beyond your control:
the passer-by's urge to look in;
the stranger's compulsion to linger.
Sometimes the telephone precedes the reflection
by minutes, sometimes by days.
Sometimes they never call.

Learn to listen for the sound
of limbs against the south wall
when the trees are still;
for the storm which moves through calm weather.

We've both heard the story about the woman
found murdered in bed:
her hands clutching shards of glass,
her throat cut clean.

What was she thinking an instant before
she realized she wasn't alone?

We've both read the accounts
of bodies found folded in laundry chutes,
of bones jamming garbage disposals
and strange odors rising from furnaces.

Learn, as you must, to expect
the key turning the lock, the safety-chain snapping against a weight greater
than your panic. Learn, to survive,
to be warned by rhythms: footsteps
in the hallway, heartbeats in the kitchen,
the pulse of your own harsh breathing.