discard the theory
about the window screen you’ve been meaning to repair,
it came in through the front door.
you let it in yourself.
remember calling the children in
for a bedtime story?
compassion misinterpreted as invitation
to anything within earshot;
it happens all the time.
it occurs in a four-bedroom house.
it manages to tackle the steps,
gently edge under the seam
of your bedroom door,
hover over the defenseless flesh
of your sleeping body.
a violin begins to play
and slumbering hands punch at the dark
hoping to silence the unwanted serenade,
but it seems that your irritation
is only the blood that it draws
from your veins
when it has the nerve
to touch you.
photo: mary e gilmore, may 2013. I’m a Crane fly. And I don’t bite.
Until next time, be kind to yourself. And each other.