A Stranger Came Knocking

by Cynthia Anderson

—which never happens, since

our house sits far from the street,

behind No Trespassing signs.

We put them up years ago to stop

Jehovah’s Witnesses. The last

opened with, How do you explain

tragedy in our lives? I replied,

You know that blind spot on

our driveway? If you meet a car

going the other way, that’s tragedy.

We keep track of who’s expected,

can’t let you arrive at random.

Please, don’t come back.

Today, a young woman stood

at the door with long, curly hair,

a backpack, and a big dog who

ran wild, trying to force his way

inside. She said he was a stray,

that they hiked onto our land

from the south—crossing open

desert, then over a rocky hill.

She claimed to live on the next

street, just wanted to meet her

neighbors. While she talked

about being single, I kept

glancing at a thick book

lying on the doormat—

like a Bible, with a grey cover.

What was it doing there?

Soon enough she confessed—

Jehovah’s Witness. I’m harmless,

she laughed, eyes averted.

Nervous, on a suicide mission,

ordered not to return without

my soul? Under the thumb

of the man I sent packing

long ago? An innocent,

pawn, shyster, or all three?

She picked up the printed bait.

I led her down the front walk

to the driveway, advised her

to stick to the road, and gave

her directions home. Later,

I walked the property,

wondered if her knock

was a cry for help.

Despite twisted motives,

she had the right thought—

to meet her neighbors.

One day we might face

disaster and need each other—

while stray dogs go crazy

around us, getting away

with whatever they can.

* * * * *

Cynthia Anderson lives in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, and she is the author of nine poetry collections. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com