There’s something sacred about it,
about me, inside
feeling raw, listening to him
removing plastic wrap from new things,
door hooks, a bath mat.
Praying for sleep so that I can pretend
the invasion never happened.
Only in the middle of the night
bumping into strange furniture
that doesn’t match anything I own,
I flip on the light
in the purple smell of new paint
and old inhibitions I see
his battered blue toothbrush
sitting next to mine
and have to remind myself
of the stranger in checked pajamas
sleeping in the next room.
(May 13, 2003)