The outlets were covered
until you were 10. No nuts
until you could spell
pistachio. Honey and strawberries?
Off limits until you could run
without falling.
China cabinet secured
to the studs and when it still wobbled
an extra anchor. In case.
Seat belts. Always.
Helmets. Always.
Strangers? Never.
Mini blind cords clipped close
and once you were caught
wandering loose in the street.
Our neighbor scooped you up
and carried you home.
I kept you inside for a week.
All of this to say
none of it was enough
and all of it was too much.
My anxiety kept a seat
at our dinner table. Nights
I invented new ways
you might die and the thought
of turning you loose in your own
car kept me up for hours.
When your father began traveling
for work I got a dog. An extra
nose to sniff
out any sign of danger.
But you keep the warm covenant
of his fur curled
next to your feet
while I check lock after lock
again & again.