A stranger arrives at her door
in a t-shirt, his truck
parked outside like a sign:
This is an honest repairman.
He wants directions, but she
does not know the street.
When he asks to use the phone,
she lets him into the kitchen
where the water has just begun
to boil, steaming the windows
like breath.
She remembers the novel
where a man holds a knife
to a child’s small throat,
drawing a thin line of blood,
then takes the young mother
off in his truck to rape her.
She thinks where her knives are,
imagines throwing the water
straight from the stove
in his face.
He murmurs something
into the phone.
She has gone to another room
and can’t make out the words,
the tone is too soft,
but she hears the water
boil over, spatter the gleaming
stainless steel of her range
like the hiss of firecrackers
before they explode.
He pulls the pan off the burner,
calls to her,
Lady? Lady?
She hides in the bathroom,
listens, even after she hears
the door open again, and close
like the click of a trigger.
When at last the truck
pulls away, she comes out,
spends the whole afternoon
drifting back and forth
to the window.
Making supper,
she burns her hand,
cries softly
long after the pain is gone.
The next morning, she’s amazed
to see she’d forgotten
to lock the back door,
to turn off the lights
that burned all night
in the kitchen.
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