My unrequited fear. My unsequestered fear. My fear that doesn’t make sense (snakes). My fear that does make sense (children). My girly fear about manhood (armpit hair). My boyhood fear about motherhood (love). Fear I’ll find my dog hit by a school bus, all the students experience a thud. Fear I’ll answer the door to a fallen soldier. I know no soldier. I know my fear of aging hands, where it came from, a friend’s mom who scolded me when I didn’t wear sunscreen. My fear of the dark. My fear of getting lost in the woods. My newly acquired fear of paper cuts, death of a thousand. I’m the needle in a haystack. I’m actually the hay. Fear of dying (not being dead). Fear of being dead (and missing the party). Fear I popped my spine one too many times in that Virginia City hotel room. I was warned. I didn’t listen. Fear of misreading the signs. Fear of Tuesday and Sunday. Fear of yes. Fear of no. Fear of the trailer window breaking when I toss my head back to laugh. I sit forward and the glass confuses my eyebrow. Fear of harnessing no skills. Fear of harnessing any horse. Fear I don’t know how. Fear I knew how once. Fear I forgot how now. Reigns in my hands knotted like a head of hair.