I might ask for a scrap of something soft.

I might tell you I’m always cold because I am.

 

I might tell you that warmth has so many layers—

and so does fear. Fear is an anchor.

 

It’s the impossibility of two lives on opposite

ends of the map, two tracks running simultaneously.

 

I’ve felt fear like an anchor sinking in my fingertips.

 

I’ve stopped searching for deer. I only search for rabbits—

and to our surprise, I see so many.

 

My mother says they come out for me, but they don’t.

 

There are no coyotes here, no predators. No threat.

Just fear. Fear in the footprints that separate us.

 

I keep a wide berth for the rabbits, their backs

arched and bristled high in the spring frost.

 

I lift my fingertips to the sky, an ocean refusing anchors.

 

I send those anchors tumbling back.