I don't think I'm ready to talk to you.
It could be that I'm afraid of something.
Well, it must be that I'm afraid of you.
But when I hunt for fear behind my eyes,
I find black slate, or maybe it's marble.
The fear, though fear is a weak word for it,
knits a fat fist in my abdomen,
and coils back out. It's the stitch that hauls
us into day, overshooting our gifts,
and hurdling us through unknown diseases.
If I'm afraid, I'm afraid of the future,
of you, on the other end of this string,
tired of tugging, with something else to do.
originally published in The Denver Quarterly