Sounds like a woman being murdered,
the young woman who cuts my hair
in a neat bob says about the mating
foxes in her parents’ yard. Last summer,
alone in bed, I heard a woman screaming
in our backyard. What’s the famous story
about the woman who was murdered and
no one called the police. Do you mind,
my mom said to the man with his hand in
her purse at the corner store after my dad
had suggested karate lessons and he went
once and she’d become a black belt.
I didn’t make it to yellow. I thought
about calling the police, googled what
animal sounds like a woman screaming.
I had a nightmare about you, I woke up
screaming, said the artist I worked for,
who filled gallon ziplocks with her
waist-length black hair. Needling
my scalp, my acupuncturist told me
she dreamt the dictator had eyes
in his neck. Two bloody bites
in my neck the next morning.
I dragged my sleeping daughter
out of bed, pulled out the screen,
closed the door, and waited.
The bat guy said, He’ll be back.
Like the naked man in black
dress socks spread-eagle against
his window across from mine
when I was thirteen, changing into
pajamas. I pulled the shades
every night after. A bat could be
hovering over you and you
wouldn’t know it. I told my husband
about the foxes. He watched me
unload the dishes and said,
I didn’t hear anything.