Neighbors

The neighbors set off

the fire alarm again today.

I saw them once, standing

outside, hugging. Snowflakes

melting on their hot skin.

Do you hear me?

I imagine he’s cooking

dinner, and she comes up

behind him. I’m a third

lover in their hands.

They’re watching a movie,

my favorite movie.

Not the one

where the Earth is on fire.

Or my mother is dying.

Did I leave the stove on?

I want to apologize

for being a bad neighbor.

My apartment makes

no noise. It’s settled.

Especially in the mornings.

A pot half submerged

in the sink with a spoon

brandishing dried

flakes of hot sauce,

and peanut butter.

I can hear them doing it

through the plaster.

Hope they can’t smell

me. Smell the clothes—

the walls, piled on the floor.

Is it acceptable to sleep at 7?

My voicemail is full. 

Sometimes I wonder

if the bed would be

any worse a way to go

than the bathtub. 

I can hear them fooling

around, slick sliding

in Axe and hair follicles.

Plugging the damn drain. 

I’m nervous. I’m not.

I took my thumbs off

And hid them in my pockets.

I breathe her in, I shoot

him into my veins, 

I promise I have the room. 

When I first moved in, 

I mailed letters with little

pieces of bone, with home

to anyone who’d have had me—

At some point I ran out.

Hey, neighbor, next time 

the fire alarm goes off, 

there’s a can of lighter

fluid outside my front door.

Daniel Lurie is a Jewish, rural writer from Roundup, Montana. He is currently pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the University of Idaho, and is the Poetry Editor for Fugue.