Winter, 2020

I’m the first back after Christmas. I walk naked
from bedroom to bathroom. I leave lone socks on the sofa
and in the middle of the living room floor. I skin olives
with my teeth, leave pits on counters. I have a new lover
who is bad for me. I keep the TV on, always. I wash
the dishes in the dark, and stop, steeped fingertip-to-wrist,
to stare at the pear-bulbed streetlights, the snowfall like bats.
You would be shocked to see bats in the dark, their fumbling
crashes, flinging from body to body, but never
with fear. I like to feel cloistered, or like a slasher killer
waiting patiently in the shadow of the staircase.
If I think about that too much, it turns back on me. I’ll realise
I am always afraid when I am alone. There’s no one
to open the door to. The snow is already coming in.