You had a way
of turning down the lamp
by half-degrees—
so slow I thought my eyes were failing.
Then you’d ask,
with soft concern,
why I insisted
on sitting in the dark.
When I bruised my knees
against the table,
you’d pull me close
and sigh about how clumsy
I’d been since the day we met.
It took years to notice
the floor was clear
until you stepped
into the room.
It took years to learn
you only moved the furniture
to give yourself something
to save me from.
I don’t carry anger now.
Anger takes up space
where caution needs to live.
I just test the floor
three times
before I trust
an empty room.