The Art Of

I'm strong, I say.
I know how to fight.
Two years I learned the art
of reducing a threat,
the art of fighting the stranger.

He might just be walking home.
But he's walking behind me
and it's ten at night.
He might be my neighbour.
He's still stranger danger.

I walk home aware
of the man behind me,
of the lack of witnesses in the street,
of a crime that might never happen,
and anyway,
I'll know how to fight him.
Except the greater risk
is a husband I've yet to meet.
I hand him the keys myself.
One in three: me, my sister, my mom.

I'd rather it be me.

Two years to learn the way.
It might take the rest of my life
to learn the art
of not being afraid
of my shadow in the night.