Neighbors

The walls are paper thin,
their bedroom next to mine.

At night the bed creaks,
low groans and gasping rhythms,
she cries out for more,
a front row seat
for an audience of one.

Morning light, voices sharpen,
one deep and angry,
the other raw, pleading,
something shatters,
a dull thud, then another,
a fist or palm or skull
knocks pictures off my wall.

I hold my breath,
helpless,
count the seconds,
listen for footsteps,
for a door slam,
for anything

but silence.

I pass her in the hallway,
she knows our walls are thin,
she looks away,
and I pretend not to see

the bruise beneath her eye.