I once was a domestic, 

  laboring in others’ homes— 

  washing, watching. 

And once, 

  at the park, 

  when the children wouldn’t listen,

  wouldn’t wear shoes, 

  someone else’s boy stepped on a bottle.

  Brown glass hook. 

The mother yelled. 

   The boy cried. 

   Held down, 

   I, 

   in a u-shaped moment, 

   pulled the glass from his foot. 

   The girls wore shoes after that, 

   watching me 

   washing the blood from my hands.

   from domestic to lover, I write—

   my beloved, 

   as warning. 

   When I try to be heard—

   Listen. 

I won’t be the mother. 

   I can’t be the son. 

   And I won’t, 

   in disbelief, 

   pretend 

   I didn’t see it coming. 

   
I can’t be the one, 

   gentle and soothing, 

   sparing the rod 

 spoiling the son. 

My love has teeth— 

   threshing, pliable. 

   It will ask you to bend. 

I can’t be the one,

   naive to pain. 

Freely blowing 

   only to get stuck— 

   barbed by someone else’s neglect. 

If anything, 

   I’m the bottle, 

   asking you not to break me.