the risk

                                       —after Mary Oliver

I began to see men in my thirties, a wild
unbanning. It was a crumple of precious
fence work in my mind, that barrier to a life

with uninvited entry. If you want life
without worry, eat with a spoon. Shun the wild
and swaddle yourself, you old bird, in precious

hermit thinking. I lived a decade in precious
reverie. Sweet samesexing or solitude, a life
very good with love and quiet and wild

fire-free dating. I did it, I loved it,
I’d do it again. But the risk of harm
has a twin named risk of caging.

I’ve unlatched the door.
The cat sees me.