The Red Light Blinking

I try not to look.
In the answering machine,
messages stay locked.
A digital domain.
Day and night
the numbers ascend.
I close off contact.
Xenophobic. Isolationist.
Because of her,
paranoia. A schizophrenic
fog. I retreat into
the home womb.
Darkness interrupted
by one light.
Warning. Pulsating beacon
to take heed of the shore.
The storm. I sail
about the shallow carpeting
without courage to
stop, press play and
listen to her words—
doesn't happen; I
throw the machine away.