Have we met?

Yes, I know you, Fear.


I know…how my mother’s body

screamed when she couldn’t get out of bed.

Her eyes would darken,

swallowing my childhood smile.


I know how my older sister hid her head

among pages, pretending to be an astronaut

and I was a suitcase she rolled over the moon.


I know how my father duct-taped his voice,

washing for hours his hands in a bathroom sink

each time he would crush the car.


I know, you are that lump in my throat

too large even for this poem to hold.


Maja S. Todorovic


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