CATHERINE
PIERCE
Domesticity
Some days I could burn
bookshelves, carve weapons
from the wreckage, drive
fearlessly past dogs and bandits.
I could rocket through towns
of dust. I could destroy
the sheriff’s good name.
Then night slips around me
and the bedroom is lit
with a strand of small lights.
My body admits to calm.
I am the same size,
but still. Outside an owl
calls evenly across the quiet,
and I ride that note,
grateful, into sleep.
But this is a warning.
Someday I could drive
the car into the ocean. I could
smash the phone, tear pages
from the dictionary. I could
make threats all my life.
Don’t think I won’t. 
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