Domesticity

Some days I could burn

bookshelves, carve weapons

from the wreckage, drive

fearlessly past dogs and bandits.

I could rocket through towns

of dust. I could destroy

the sheriff’s good name.

Then night slips around me

and the bedroom is lit

with a strand of small lights.

My body admits to calm.

I am the same size,

but still. Outside an owl

calls evenly across the quiet,

and I ride that note,

grateful, into sleep.

But this is a warning.

Someday I could drive

the car into the ocean. I could

smash the phone, tear pages

from the dictionary. I could

make threats all my life.

Don’t think I won’t.