not yet

he doesn’t raise his voice.
he never has to.
sit, he says, and you do,
on the edge of the bed
like the word put you there

he takes his time with his shirt,
one button, another, and then one more
watching you watch him

hands on your knees.
waiting until
waiting until
waiting until
you know better
than to ask, or push,
so you stay, hands where he left them,
waiting until
he says it

he crouches, close enough
that you feel the warmth
before the touch,
and the touch doesn’t come

your fingers curl
against your knees,
wanting to go
where he hasn’t
yet

not yet, he says,
like he’s reading you the time

your breath goes shallow,
your knees forget
what he asked of them,
and he puts them back,
gently, where they were

there, he says.
good.