2.
I'm sleeping in a house, not my house
or any of your houses.
But it's my house, in the South.
Maybe it's my queer uncle's estate, Fagoli.
Narrow french doors open onto a snowy balcony.
Moonlight or streetlight filters through and falls,  
making diving boards of the white carpet.
I wake to a sound, probably in Brooklyn.
There is a shadow at the doors,
someone rattling the handle.
The innate, illogical guilt of sleep
snaps me out of bed to the door,
having left someone waiting
in selfish slumber.
Hand rests on **** and I lock eyes with a killer.
I'm a ripping-tight knot
of adrenaline'd blood and organs.
His head is down, facing the lock as he picks it,
but he raises one eyebrow and looks into my eyes.  
His mouth is a tight line, turned up at the corner.
My hand slips from the ****,
I back up a step and freeze in panic.
If I turn to run,
he will open the door in that instant.
I face him as the door rattles
more precariously.
I think of my dad, the black wooden billy-club
hanging by a leather cord from his big headboard.
Over and over I try to call him
but my voice is as frozen as the balcony.