THE BITE WITHOUT TEETH
Not every bite
leaves a mark.
Sometimes it is
the sentence
she spends three days
trying not to repeat.
Who would believe you?
Sometimes it is
the hand resting
on the steering wheel
while he explains
how easy it would be
to ruin her.
Sometimes it is
the look
that tells her
the argument
has not ended,
only gone quiet.
The world likes evidence
with edges.
A bruise.
A photograph.
A broken thing.
But fear can bite
without teeth.
It can teach a body
to flinch
at a key in a lock
years after
the key belongs
only to her.
WINTER HAS A BITE, BUT IT LETS GO
The first winter alone,
she mistrusted
the furnace.
Every click
sounded like
the beginning
of something else.
The cold had a bite,
yes,
but only cold.
No accusation
inside it.
No punishment
waiting
behind a closed door.
She bought
a heavier blanket.
Turned the thermostat
two degrees higher
without asking permission.
Snow gathered
against the windows.
Nothing followed.
By February,
she understood:
some things bite
because they are weather.
And weather,
unlike him,
does not insist
she deserved it.
THE WORD LOVE SHOULD NOT BITE
She used to hear
I love you
as a warning.
It came after
the question
she answered wrong.
After the silence
that lasted too long.
After the apology
that somehow required
her forgiveness
before his change.
Love had teeth then.
It held on.
Years later,
someone says it
and leaves the sentence open.
No demand.
No ownership.
No price.
She waits
for the bite.
It never comes.
That is how she learns
a word can be returned
to its proper mouth.
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