Origin of Fear
Rides in on an unfriendly wind
and transforms the trees into strong hands
that can’t be seen but squeeze
tighter and tighter the more we try
to speak about it. Peripheral
but ever present. It is someone you don’t like
talking about someone you don’t know.
Threshold of a pitch-dark room.
A sudden drop in the stomach. Rising
tide. Nightfall. Harsh light and fire alarm.
Declaration of punishment for hiding
desire. Field of crows lifting to smoke
lifting to truth you can’t share
like a part of the body you’re afraid to touch.
The way some people smile into a mirror
when they are alone and no one is watching.
Disease of the Mind
Not by choice. Arc of a roller coaster,
a small child in the front car not ready
to fall. Little slug inching toward an end-
point in time. Partly cloudy with a chance
of sinkholes. Rubber band stretched
until it snaps. Unlike other failed organs—
liver, heart, kidney—everyone blames
the person for possession. Dark city
made only of fog-filled alleyways.
Dog howl, crated too long. Piercing
whine. Whimper. Fallen apple reaching
for the broken branch. Fan blades
coated in a decade of matted dust.
Armillary sphere with no rings.
Dying planet tethered to twin moons.
Nightmare that tries so hard to dream.
Surveillance
Owl perched on top of a light pole in the suburbs.
Someone always asking: Did you just say what I think
you said. Neighbors networking at the block party,
and neighbors calling the police on someone
who doesn’t look like their neighbor. Profiling
differences for cruelty and power. Give me data
or give me death. Mothers running to their babies
at the slightest cough. Between the lines, the lie:
This is for your safety. One nation under God. Under
God—a disaster created in his image. In line at the bank.
In line to buy food. In line at school waiting your turn
for the water fountain. A signature on the dotted line.
On the porch of your parents’ house, raising your hand
to ring the doorbell, your fingerprint filmed
like an eclipse. Autumn watching summer hang on
too long. Even if we forget everything or lose
the ability, someone else has built a polished library
for memory and reference. Free and open to the public.
The mind not trusting the body to be enough.
Faulty machine that needs a body to feel complete.
John McCarthy is the author of Scared Violent Like Horses (Milkweed Editions, 2019), which won the Jake Adam York Prize. His poems have appeared in 32 Poems, Alaska Quarterly Review, Best New Poets, Cincinnati Review, Gettysburg Review, Ninth Letter, Pleiades, and TriQuarterly. John is a Managing Editor at RHINO. He lives in Evanston, Illinois.
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