when all the cities begin circling like crows
in your head, touch your eyelashes to your cheeks.
examine the shifting lights within
the soft concave. let your eyebrows rise
from their furrow and spread, a funnel
into the cramped places where you crush
your wads of fear and shut
the cabinet doors. open
run your mind’s fingers through the silken slip
of thought (fear is thought) and unrumple its crimson length
against the ground. sit and watch the colors
just this, today, emily. just this question. just this
terror. touch it and know each thread.
when it is in front of you, it cannot slip
around your neck. when you gaze into the question
you see that it was never for you to answer.
you must only spread it out: to know the pattern
of fear is to understand its source, and to know
the source is to begin the untangling.
all your fears will be spread before you.
and you will knit them together.
and you will hang them round your shoulders
a raiment of surrender.
I received a letter from my friend Emily. This fragment is for her. It can be for you too, you person who is also afraid of change and growing and starting new things, which means all of us. It’s over 100 words, but I figured I could break my rule for her. (You can read her here.)
Also, I’m late, but love how the fragment that I was ruminating on today coincided with the Daily Post’s “starting over” challenge this week.