I once diffused a bomb in my house,
a stick of dynamite kept hidden
while I pried open arms around me
and lied about my job, and danced
through a minefield and replaced
my bra straps, while you left confused,
and when I locked the doors I knew
that I was a grown-up now, forever,
entitled to my secrets, particularly
ones where no crime was committed.
By Heidi Turner