The house was full tonight.
Full of shoes kicked off in the hallway.
Full of half-sung songs from the kitchen.
Full of my body, worn from holding my daughter's cackle of girls together;
and letting it go at the same time.
I said I was tired.
He said, You did a lot today.
I said, What did I do?
He said, Everything.
Not in the way men sometimes say it.
Not to flatter.
Not to seduce.
Just to name it.
Just to hold it.
The dog stayed out.
I asked if he should be locked up.
Stop apologising, he said.
He's guarding.
No explanation.
No blame.
No fear of what the neighbours would think.
Just trust.
In the dog.
In the house.
In me.
I went to bed without fixing anything.
Without checking anything.
Without managing one more thing.
I curled into the mattress.
The dog curled into the night.
And somewhere between his breath and mine,
the house held itself.
Because I didn’t have to.
Because I was already held.
