A Place of One's Own

Slow down, you say,
slow down and relax.
Come here, sit beside
me on the couch, grab
a pillow, put your head
against my lap, close
your eyes and listen
to the wind move the
chimes, the birds sing.
It's that easy, this love,
you whisper to me.
That easy. Let's live
together, it can work.
Let's make a go of it.
But no. I run. I stiffen
at the thought of you
being here when I get
home, of you sleeping
where I sleep. I cringe
at the thought of not
being able to breathe
or think, or move about
the house with ease.
I can't imagine you at
the stove, standing there
making soup. Holding
a spatula, my spatula
in your hand. The
refrigerator full of yogurt
and skim milk, wheat
thins, and brie on the
counter. Or having
your robe on the bath-
room door, your three
shampoos, your seven
face creams, your lotions
and perfume. Nylons
hanging in the way on
the shower rod, cluttering
up my own personal
space. No, let's think
this through, let's talk
about it tomorrow after
breakfast and coffee, after
you leave in the morning.