Home Theater

a poem

To show it was late and you were done,
you scooted to my feet, your head at my knees,
and wailed.

I needed a moment too long to dry my hands
before lifting you.
I felt your devastated weight. 

It was no surprise, then, to be called “Witch”
or told you hated me. 
I was never going to be the Girl Next Door.

I had prepared instead
to be the Narrator. 
Each scene would have an Aesopian ending.

But that one time you writhed on the floor
in front of the bed, 
I restrained you in what I hoped was an embrace. 

The denouement surprised us both.
There was no lesson here. 
Just agony and the unknown. 

After that I became less afraid
because we had been to the furthest reaches
and had survived. 

Like Beatrice, you declare 
I kill you by saying “no”.
That's just how you tell me you feel safe.