Tobi Alfier
RAGE IN THE SHADOWS
Floating on an island of quilts, listening to the rain sing us to sleep, we hear the screech of wind-blurred unplaceable voices from not far away. Twenty-four years and I don’t know the neighbors, but I hate the bitch who’s been coming and going the last few weeks. She’s nothing but trouble, I know it— Dirty hair pulled back careless, bourbon-blushed cheeks, narrowed eyes no matter in sun or shade, always thinking how to hurt. Somebody’s screaming get the hell out— louder than the wind through the camphor tree in our front yard, louder than the waves which override the weather with their viciousness. We stay cuddled-up, hear a car start, tires peel out and skid—the slippery street and wet leaves an exclamation point on anger unresolved. Motel nights are booze in a paper cup, hotplate that violates the hell out of reason and we don’t care—she’s gone.
43 Poetry
