Afraid

I am afraid of the dog in the yard at night that lunges at the fence,
I am afraid that the chain I don’t see isn’t there. I dart out in the dark street dodging headlights.

I am afraid of the night coming in to the house
           of the headlights angling through the window
           of what the cat hears

I am afraid of being always on the outside, as
           on a summer evening on Virginia Beach, when
           the rest of the family swam earlier while I watched the baby,
           I come in from swimming, my mother - depressed for weeks – laughs,
           throws a beachball to Billy, Kenny, Cherie, my stepfather
           I feel light as I run to join them,
           she sees me, her face goes blank, her arms lose their strength,
           the beach ball falls on the sand.
I am afraid of her face, walling me out, and
I am afraid of my fear that dissolves what I see and replaces it with that blank face

I am afraid of the churning of the train at night as I walk near the tracks
           how it shakes me to my bones, and
           as it passes, its long tail of cars
           like crack the whip,
           I suck in my breath preparing for impact, and
           when the second train comes, the long tail that will not strike hurtling towards me,
I am afraid of how I ready myself even so, and
           when the train passes
           how I am still there
I am afraid when you leave me
           of how I am still here.

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