print previewback LINDSAY TIGUE
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? 
Elevator
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