you're a risk,
like safe sex--
you tell me,
"stay a little longer"
each time we meet.
I don't always want to.

let's not pretend
this is the only way
I can free myself.
you send me messages to decode,
yet some nights I prefer
empty city-night rituals
and medium-rare comforts
driving me
toward a churning disobedience
of your increasing demands.

I'm your wife,
your mother,
lover,
some days your killer

I see what you're doing.

you lure me
to meld anonymous into harmonies,
then leave me
untethered among furious waves--
beats that repeat,
shouting
like a traffic cop:
stop!
yield!
sharp turn ahead!

you force me
to live like a squatter,
unsettled in my uncertainty,
then move me
in the splendor of cerulean psalms,
unbroken--
waiting
for the eternal sensation
of that which is written.

Roxann Lyn King
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