Because alone is too hard, 
she scans her bookshelf 
pretending to be someone 

else. Someone specific 
and wrong—someone who shouldn’t 
be in her house. An hour goes by 

in the mirror. Stepping back from red
thinking not again she runs 
a bath and soaks 

another hour. She screens calls 
from people she knows, 
communicating only 

through text. In the evening 
in the dark she sits 
on the floor with the couch 

shielding her from the window 
before she crawls to the door 
to double-check the lock. Each time 

she reaches to turn the key 
she flinches, envisions a hand 
grabbing hers. In bed 

she cannot bear the silence, 
and the gray light 
through the blinds offers 

no talk. She calls an ex 
who always answers, 
even in his sleep.

Claire Denson is a Poetry Reader for The Adroit Journal and holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro, where she served as Editorial Intern for The Greensboro Review. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Massachusetts Review, Sporklet, and Hobart, among others. You can find her at clairedenson.com.