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