* 1977 *
There must have been some sound, a noise
I don’t remember. Why else look?
The face at the basement window
seems blurred, out of focus. Cream lace
makes a real world pixelation,
In the dark, I can’t see the hair,
the beard that erodes the edges
of the white, what must be the face.
The only parts visible are
the dark within the light, yin yang
of the face, blurred black dots against
the white: two dark eyes, huge; nostrils,
stretched and strange; mouth partly open,
breathing harsh and eager, then gone.
He moves so fast, so fast. Was it
even seconds later the fist
on my door made me jerk into
a startle-scream choked back in breath?
* 2007 *
The face at my nether regions
seems blurred and distorted. A mask
muffles the mumbling mouth, obscures
the light curses. Dali-esque, the eyes
warp into something inhuman,
or so it seems to my drugged mind.
What’s wrong with his eyes? I don’t know —
glasses? A visor? Whatever
it might be aside from surreal.
The eyes seem to twist while I look
at them, my eyes feel the twisting
in the looking. Not the arms, though.
They are crisp and focused. The white
cotton jacket-like gown, the cuffs
cinched in at his pale bone-thin wrists,
the surgical gloves. Other ghosts
move around and behind the man
hunched on the stool between my legs.
He moves so fast, so fast. It hurts
each time he moves. Tug and jerk hurt.
Twist and pull hurt. Ow, I cry, stop.