Anita Mechler: It Knocks

I forget to breathe

in this dark forest.

The absence of oxygen

like a pressure

pushing against my organs

metastasizing something unknown.


There is a knock at the door,

footsteps echo loudly in the hallway.

My cat’s pupils widen,

alone together, we pile our defenses.


Laying in wait,

for the next sound,

like the crack of a branch underfoot,

wings or rustling leaves,

brambles brushed against.


It is inevitable,

the phantom itch,

delicacy of a single hair

brushing my skin,

a soreness that speaks of the sinister.


When I am alone with nowhere to go.

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