Trailer No. 7

Amanda Piekarz

the wooden door too easily

axed through:

Here’s Johnny I joked years ago

before we realized it wasn’t funny

the panic settled thick, stifled

in the back of my throat

the doorknob hung limp and useless

offering little security

so at night, we pushed the couch

in front of the door

and tried to pretend we were safe

surrounded by our smoke

a murder-suicide in the now-vacant lot

beside ours left ghosts

and us, even more unsettled, anxious

for the onset of our lives

staring out the window past the cars

at the fields of corn which

according to King is contaminated

with killer children

and Cujo and alien clowns

It’s the Barrens I say

A— nodded, eyes pinched, nearly black

with paranoia as strong as mine

the shadows which stalked in the yellow

streetlights, on the darkest nights

where the strangers prowled just past

our lingering sight

they tapped on the aluminum panels

leaving hollow, haunted sounds

while we lay close together, knit by blankets

in bed at night

the trees would scratch our tin-can roof

in complex abstract patterns

all while we knew we needed out

of Trailer No. 7