She wants to empty everything
that can be emptied: bank accounts,
safes, saucers. She even walks

the 7 flights of stairs down
to the dumpster every night
whether or not the trash bag is full.

Once she spent an afternoon
dropping old photos into the garbage
disposal. When the neighbors

complained she took to scrubbing
mud from her stiletto boots.
Twice a day she weighs herself, twice

a day drinks a glass of milk as a meal.
The curtains are kept closed, men kept
at a distance, never allowed

to sleep over. She forces them
out the door then strips the sheets.
Last night was laundry night.

She filled the sink with tepid water,
cried a little while washing the sweat
from her mask. When she came

to collect me from the closet I fell
from my hanger. The ground is no place
to call home she said. I thought

of all the nights she’s slept on a white
plush rug by the bed. There’s only so much
I can do from the closet: watch, worry, wait

for restlessness and urgent reach,
each muscled leg. When she slides
inside me I feel the frenzied push

of her body against every seam.
I push back. I try to keep
whatever’s left inside from spilling out.

-Leigh Anne Hornfeldt