One of the deep
moments that keeps itself
face up in the memory bed,
asleep but ever-stirring, threatening

to open its eyes and fix me
like a bug on its pin:

the time I killed the squirrel
on the front lawn after
its mauling by the big stray mutt
we all hated. I pulled

a good strong knife and slashed
once then twice over the tooth-mashed throat,
saw the spurt, saw it relax at once;

then I reached for a stone
and nailed that dog in the ribs
and it took off howling with me howling
after it, running it off, its shallow flanks
pumping ahead of me too fast
to catch.

I do not fear the memory
for its horror,
but for its delights —
its promise of deus ex machina,
its flavor of massacres, camps,
and gallows blessed by others.

Its tang of permission.

When you pontificate
to your chosen or found audience,
offering advice,
opining that the listener
should “do one thing every day
that scares you,”
you use the statement
to draw the attention away
from your shaking hands.

Getting up scares you.  Coffeemaking
scares you. Being naked in a shower
scares you.  Clothing yourself
post-shower scares you. Conversation
scares you.  Eating with others scares you.
Sex scares you. Sleeping
scares you, until you’re lost to it.

That dark thrill of a catchphrase
offered as entertainment or uplift
disguises how fearful and careful
you’ve become, how little
you can find in your day-to-day
that makes you calm.  

But you keep saying it, doing it.
“Do one thing everyday that scares you.”

What you’re talking about
is unclear.  You mean it, that’s
obvious; you reach for it,
the effort is visible, palpable
to the watchers.
You wrangle
something out of the air
and hold it
till it stops squirming.  
But what is it?
Can you even name it?  
Is it big enough for a label? 

I think all you want
is to be in control of some fleeting thing
in the middle of your steady chaos.
To keep from pissing your pants
long enough to pretend
that this is good enough for now.

It’s a magic spell.
It conjures a drug.
A hospice drug.