Too far to truly worry

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4.6 Too far to Truly Worry

Checking in:
Are you ok?
I mean it,
Though I’m far away.

I’m trying to mean it, anyway.

It’s just
The fire is not here
I worry
Though I’m in the clear

It’s a bit too far to carry fear

Those angry faces:
They’ve gone home?
Just checking
Though I hate to phone

I trust that you’ve been left alone

Checking in:
That’s not you, right?
Facing outward
Towards the night?

I prefer to keep the topics light

Ok, we’re good?
You’re not yet dead?
Sweet, I’ll
Just head off to bed

Maybe check online instead

***

I have friends who are stationed in dangerous places – far more dangerous than where I’m at right now. Still, when I check in with them on Facebook and they’re so calm about it, I find it really difficult to maintain my sense of worry. It’s more a dutiful worry than an authentic feeling…

Throw down a little Salt

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I cannot imagine new tenants walking backwards up the stairs,
Throwing down a little salt because they read it in a book.
They must not check over their shoulders,
Nor hunch their shoulders up around their necks for protection.
Poor dark things, menacing an empty room,
I worry for you.
Who feeds you now?
Do you skitter amid the boxes, looking for me and my vivid imagination?
Do you still dance as I imagined?
Not that I could bear to witness.
I could not stand the darkness.
Perhaps now…but would you want me now, full of worldly fears?
Or would I taste too leathery, to tough even for your needle teeth?
Check on them, if you would.
Under the stairs, behind the boxes of forgotten books, or in shadows of the old art projects.
Throw down a little salt.
For my lonely living shadows.

Test Results

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Test Results

Sitting in my inbox is a link.
A link I have not clicked.
I do not click it, because I am nervous.
Not afraid.
My stomach folds over.
It won’t be cancer.
It won’t be Lyme disease.
It won’t be a marriage proposal.
It is, the further I back out, getting smaller in scope.
But it won’t disappear from view.

Creating distance is a default reaction.
A long view is a shield, a balm
The further away from a blast,
The less skin gets blown off the body.
(It won’t explode, either.)
No, it won’t be the end of me,
Nor will it be my saving grace.

The link is just a foothold, a promontory.
When I click it, new paths will either open up
And take me away, or they will close with thorns and locks.
I will still be me afterwards.
I will have all my digits and bracelets.
I will still walk the woods in autumn.
But I will also be different.
A culmination of so many tiny links
Building in my subconscious a way of walking,
A way of seeing…

Enough now.
Poetry is such sweet distraction.
But warriors do not dawdle.