by Erin J. Mullikin
In this version, I am fine.
I don’t repeatedly check the door to make sure it’s secure,
my hands on both locks, one, two, three. I wake up early.
I go for runs and walks. I read numerous novels.
You come home to me.
You’re late to get in, but you get in. You eat my soup.
You dry off on my towel. The rain touches you as much as it touches me.
The rain, we fall asleep to its patter, together.
We pack up our things.
We’ve got a bigger place now. We’re planning for additions.
In this version, you never look away. You face whatever it is:
the window, the campfire, the apricot.