Every night
I leave the window open.
I pull the screen
from its track
and set it against the wall.
I sleep naked
beneath a thin sheet.
I wait
for something heavy
to cross the yard,
for clawed fingers
on the windowsill,
hot breath,
the smell of wet fur.
I imagine
the weight of him
over me,
his teeth at my shoulder,
his hands
holding me down.
Some mornings
there is a dead moth
on my bedroom floor,
sometimes an oak leaf,
brown and curled.
Once
a mosquito
fed on the inside
of my thigh.
The fat welts itched
all morning.
The moon grows full,
then disappears.
Night after night
the world enters
in pieces.
In the morning
I gather them
from the floor.