This morning
you were a mother shouting at a child
your fear-born anger pinning me to the wall
mouth open (dummy's imprint still moist)
my flattened hands spanned wide
and my man's body stilled
as my direct gaze pretended to look at you.
But now at night
as I ease from you
to trudge to the bathroom
your arms move a fraction too late
to cling to me
and you hold yourself and whimper.
I wish I could turn back clocks
and lend you my thumb.