Who is it there, patrolling my air space?

I.
Solitary in bath water, assuming safety, confined in her
narrow Victorian house on Bryant Street, she surveyed
the Matisse print above the tub, traced primary

Colors around flowers held by his steadfast blue hand.
Pink liquid soap from the trustworthy plastic container
squeezed down her forearms, torso, legs.

Intrusion astonished her, never recalled the door opening or
saw the lock on the brass knob move. His little honey face,
almond-shaped, surrounded deep brown locks

Coiled up— like snakes. His eyes, moist, mellow, scalding
as fresh-brewed coffee, pierced the air towards her as
he stood. His rose lips, made for song— parted briefly.

Stunned as a bug, she felt heavy, never recalled waves
in the water and climbed out on drips as she glided
past his still-taut frame. Clutched rolled white cloth

In each hand, voiceless, naked, she ran for years,
never knowing if he followed her or looked back
towards the south where worship intruded unbidden.

II.
Years later, looking up to the sky, she saw instead—
grey rafters in a warehouse and all around her—
wide aisles, metal cases stacked to the ceiling

With razor-slashed cardboard cartons: cigarettes,
grass seed, tires, tomato sauce, fertilizer, styrofoam plates.
Dazed, she wandered about, pushing a tall metal cart,

Picking up a gallon jug of artichokes here,
a six-pack of sparking toothpaste there. A blow from rear
knocked her down. Kneeling on cement, she stared

Close-range at his long legs in pressed black trousers,
tidy cuffs, polished shoes. She rolled her head back,
noticed a white shirt, sandy hair, and pasty hands, yanking

A white plastic cone out of one pocket.
He conveyed a message with the tone of a lay minister in the
Sunnyvale Methodist Church: “Suck on this or I’ll kill you.”

Inhaling massively with closed eyes, she bore down on
the task at hand. The cold tip pierced her cheek and one
side of her throat. She cannot recall having stopped the effort

Or exhaled and she has not opened her eyes yet to
find out if he is standing there. She has not glanced
towards the north, where survival is cold and hard.

III.
Swallowing a little, with her eyes closed, she often
saw colors. One time, a singer slumped on a
gnarled log near a dried up inlet of the bay.

Waters reached his feet. Only last summer, but
have since receded. He sang to many before
the drought. The singer had blue eyes—

Downcast, a heart longing to play string
instruments with idle prophetic hands. Others
tried bolstering him, together, they lifted under

His wet arms. He sagged, went limp.
She looked sadly towards the west
where water is.

IV.
Never sure if she actually dreamed anymore,
she saw many things all the time anyway—
her eyes closed while continuing her task,

This time, she thought she had a dream because
she lay on a bed of moss, under Sitka spruce covered
in blackness. Winds screamed, warm rain seeped

Up in pool around her. On this island, there was no
way to tell if the storm would end. Bereft, forgetful of
other tasks, she called the watchman. She could not

Remember when the cone fell out of her mouth.
She opened her eyes, but made no difference as no one
could see in this place of darkness and night.

A disembodied voice said, “You can make no mistakes.
This takes enormous concentration and energy.
Yet, unless you express an original thought, you will

Never be paid for your work. Do you understand?
She opened her eyes and waited, gazing
towards east where the light would come up.