Worry and anxiety have worn me down to the bone

There was no rug on the floor

and the old lady from downstairs

would crawl up on her hands through the wood

and show up at the door, screaming

 

there was no rug on the floor

and any scrape or movement

would start the beating up

from down below

the wooden broom-gunfire

and the lady would crawl

and show up at the door, screaming

 

every time I stepped

every move from me, the creak of the bed

would unleash the stream as if she was a

puppet tied to the hooks in the wall

 

every move I’d make would send the electric

force, fire through her body –the screaming of her

would red the electric and every move out would

make the listen the electric floor to her

until she’d run up the stairs, screaming

 

not content to bang on our floor, her ceiling,

she’d try to break down our iron door

 

bang! bang! bang!

 

I can hear you, she’d say, you cockroaches

you whores, I can hear you breathing

 

breathin’ on the door

 

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her

so, I closed my eyes and imagined

her apartment full of upholstered chairs,

imagined the soiled lampshades, lamps,

the bible with all the names missing

 

she’d have to stand on a chair,

with a broom in her hand,

pushing up against the ceiling

 

bang! bang! bang!

 

outside, police rounded up boys on the street

outside, garbage filled the knots in the trees

outside, pigeons lived and died dirty

Bushra Rehman

Note: This poem has appeared in Stone Canoe journal in another version.