Dream of the harassers
LYN LIFSHIN
They start off, after
Iıd smiled or said,
³maybe,² or wrote
³promising² on an essay
First the call, then
the gift, roses on the
stoop like some
abandoned baby. Some
times they even
slam against the door,
lulled by booze, are
there, like a Chevrolet
on a pillow camouflaged
by ivy. It takes time
to stumble past them.
I double lock every
car window but they
take that as a lure,
like one who sang 7
hours under a window
as tes steamed, fogged
the glass, howled,
³me thinks the lady
doth protest too much²
and for 12 years
send two to five
letters a day, never
with a return address,
porcelain dolls, mobiles
bad books. Then he squealed
for hours on my phone
mate. Police just
shrugged since he hadnıt
actually shot me, except
on the canvas he kept
slashing with paint,
trailing globs thru the
Hilton lobby where I went
to speak on getting a
gallery. He hasnıt
stabbed yet, we canıt
the police sing, do anything
until. The more locks
I put up the quicker
heıs there to try to
jump them unable, to
refuse a challenge,
I guess. Two men shove
the door in, leave
dead bolts dangling.
I hustle people at my
cocktail party out,
the evidence ragged as
a dead elm in the moon.
Isnıt this enough, isnıt
it what I can use,
canıt I get him and
the obscene phone callers
who know my license, my
favorite color shoes
like mud off me?
