You sleep, and Hitchcock’s waiting
in your armchair, chewing pistachios,
plotting on a board. How
could you miss him, the heavy
breath, thick enough for pigeons
to perch on? Even as you sleep,
his feet push back the rug,
revealing the things
you thought you’d forgotten:
broken scissors, the man’s heart
you broke. You don’t remember,
but he does, sitting in your chair,
watching the blondes
on Astrology TV flip cards
and make promises. The noise
you hear at 3 a.m. is not a crow
announcing carrion: it’s his urge
to squeeze a mandarin orange
and let it bleed through his fingers.
To quench something,
to leave a stain on the floor.
carl boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and the Kentucky Review.