As soon as I opened the apartment door
I knew. Kitchen chairs askew and so
close to the edge of the table
that a passing train's rattle might've
tipped it, a blue bowl
from which the scent of milk
soured the air.

The living room shelves
had a rifled-through look
with mail stuffed between books
spilled onto the floor. Had my bank accounts
been breached? Checks seized? But the letters
were all sealed, dusty in the window's weak light
under which one plant—brittle, yellow—
wanted water.

What did the intruder want
if not the accounts? Something quick
to pawn? Yet nothing of value
was gone: flatscreen, laptop
unplugged on the couch. In the bedroom
rumpled sheets, pillow blackened with what seemed to be
mascara. Mine

or the intruder's? Strange
to think of her like that. As someone
with a face. As a woman
who wept at night, feeling
alone in a stranger's apartment.