They’re noisiest in the morning. Folding
laundry I hear the scritch of talons
against aluminum, the dry rub
of podotheca in the wall.          For two
summers I flinched every time
the dogwood scraped my bedroom
window. I don’t remember who
told me about Annie Scratch
and her knife-like nails
as she lay under the box spring
patiently clawing night after night
until finally she pierced the mattress
and my back, leaving me
a mess of red ribbons
for my parents to find in the morning.
I was old enough that I shouldn’t have bound
my blanket around my feet so they wouldn’t slip
past the edge of the bed while I slept, old enough
to know that no woman would spend
so much time scraping toward what was inside
the rattled cage of my chest.
Only someone buried alive
would splinter their nail beds
to get at the life pulsing
above them.          I should reach into the vent
and pull the nest of dead
foliage and strands of brown hair out
before the house catches fire
and leaves me ash in my bed. But I don’t.

-Leigh Anne Hornfeldt