on thursday, my therapist asks.

after José Olivarez

what are you afraid of?

one day, someone will be stuck

in traffic arguing on the

phone with their lover & the sun

will incernate their earth.

the sun wouldn’t even ask.

the sun is a gemini like that.

what are you afraid of?

my mom calls, then forgets what she called for. i try

not to build a story that ends in me being alone.

what are you afraid of?

that i will spend the next forty-five years digging

into the same soil, looking for a new set of

bones to imprint my hips with. it always ends

with the lover leaving.

what are you afraid of?

growing up, my grandpa had an orange tree

i searched for the most rotten ones

to throw at my sister.

what are you afraid of?

there is a head

of garlic in the cabinet

above my ex-girlfriends sink. i know this

as a universal truth. it’s been a year

when i hear she gave up

her apartment by the water.

what are you afraid of?

the australian asks where i’m from & i finger

the thread of the hostel sheet. i think of

san francisco first. then, an ‘02 minivan

parked on a dirt hill, beer bottles in the trunk

overlooking the city. i’m not sure which answer

makes me more of a liar.

what are you afraid of?

ultraviolet fingerprints on my arm.

men with fingers.

what are you afraid of?

that my window screen will give way

too easily when met with a knife.

i fall asleep with it open anyway.

mostly, i don’t have the energy to fix fear.

what are you afraid of?

am i talking about what i should be talking about?

what are you afraid of?

my wanting:

a lemon tiled kitchen, soft hands, my body

becoming more & more

forgetful.