Safe
    
          by Kathryn Jacobs


I climb into a cavernous embrace
and murmur to him while he rumbles back,
surround-sound. Carpet, too: such luxury.
I’m tired of wary. 

                       Outside, men like storms
flash sundry grins. And sometimes I’ve grinned back,
on threat alert, as always: all those teeth. 
A little teasing, till you shut the door –
and then it stretches: rictus. 
	                          Help, no thanks:
I dive into the carpet. Large hands run
like squirrels on rooftops, pattering; they weave
a close-knit border round me. Safety net. 
I clamber, too.  
	        And on the way to sleep,
his shoulders loose-slung over mine (curled in)
he rumbles: I’m amazing. Silly man.