Out of Bounds

The refrigerator started its rattle

at two in the morning, a rhythmic gnashing

that made the drywall feel like it was closing in.

I had to get out before the ceiling

touched the top of my head.

The air out here is thick with the smell

of damp mulch and neighbor’s laundry.

I’m sitting on the top step,

watching a moth beat itself stupid

against the yellow bulb.

When I stand up, I’ll find

the flakes of white lead-paint

stuck to the skin of my heels,

little jagged maps of a place

I can't seem to leave.