She Hates Being Seen

You cannot see her but you know she is here –
The hairs on the back of your neck rise
As she calls them to attention.

Your eyes dance around the wide pudding bowl
That is your bedroom,
Sizing up the underside of your bed,
Across the carpet to the closet shell,
Shrouded in nighttime possibility.

You can look wherever you wish;
Behind corners,
In the valley between the wall and the dresser,
Within tight spaces beneath wooden steps,
Even behind your shivering body –
But I must warn you
In your search,
Do not ever
look
up.