Elevator

She’s forgotten to call

her mother. Stayed in bed

hours too long. She’s left

the garden’s tomatoes

to rot. She’s woken up,

still loving the wrong

man. Of course, she’s forgotten

to eat. Then later, shaking,

she’s plied the near-empty

vending machine with coins. She’s taken

whatever she can get. Today, she’s gone

to an office, sat at a desk.

Head pounding, left eye twitching.

She’s taken pills to calm

the thrumming skull. Today,

leaving, a young man has stuck his hand

in the closing door of the elevator.

I’m sorry, she’s said. As if she was

supposed to know he was coming.

I’m sorry, she’s said. Do

you want to know a secret?

he’s said out of nowhere. Sure.

He’s told her he’s pushed the alarm button

over and over. It has rung

many times in her head.

Nothing will happen, he’s told her.

No one will come.The elevator door

has opened onto a room of desks.

Suited people have raised their heads

from documents and screens.

Yesterday, at group therapy,

she was made to repeat:

I am worthy. She’s had to do

this every week. She thought it

stupid until it wasn’t.

Maybe next time after saying it—

I am worthy—she’ll remember the faces

beyond the elevator. Their asking: who

is sounding this alarm?