Deimos is left wanting at my front gate. What terror could exist
inside this place? Here I am me,

in my fullest embrace; a writer, a dreamer, a social scientist,
one who crunches herbs she has grown in her fist and

tosses them into the kettle. There is no terror,
in drinking tea, laying upon a papasan

and reading. Here is a space where maps hang on walls,
there is no more room in the bookcase,

where folded papers are stuffed in jeans
that are piled on floors, carnival masks are seated next to

boxing gloves and agate stones, and pamphlets that tell me
how to use trees to find north and south.

There is nothing to fear in a magnifying glass, or cup
of orange wine, in card decks and star charts, in a carving of

a stag with seven prongs, in the figure of Hera
with her arms thrown back in stride.

There is no need for Deimos here. Let his demon self sit out
in the cold, with the rain and wind, heat without shade;

here is where I have loved ones lean on my shoulder,
do a cat’s cradle while waiting for my computer to load, make

carbonara, watch my romancer do the dishes
with heavy eyes, as my mind drifts

with a breeze that comes through the window. I am not afraid
of terrors or pains at home. No more.