he does not come disguised as
Brenda Starr’s Black Orchid man,
one-eyed, dark, slick.

he does not appear suddenly
in the room, elevator, doorway
into which I step.

he does not wait in the street,
shoulder against a lamp post,
bending to cup his hand
around a lighted match.

he does not take me by surprise.

I see him striding through a red horizon,
rising over the edge of a long golden field,
rising high and wider than a forest fire moon,
looming huge and distorted,
growing into view like a bruise, a bump,
unfolding fast as a hibiscus
in a Walt Disney nature film.

last night
he came like Shane, like Godzilla,
like Alan Ladd standing on ten boxes,
and I,
a Dorothea Lange Depression woman,
hair pulled back,
a few strands blowing loose
in the dust-filled wind,

I watched from the porch.