Anxiety

Jennifer McClellan

 

It is unmistakable; this fear

of falling through shaky sidewalks,

straight into a bull’s-eye.

My heart pounds, beneath

my hand against my chest.

My choice wells up in my eyes like dew

drops on the lips of pale pink rose petals

along the pathway’s edge.

The late October trees stand like fortune tellers;

their paint-dipped limbs bend in the breeze

and tell me this isn’t the end of the world

despite my stance on a cliff’s ledge.

 

I wish I believed that, but one thing

growing up gave me is a pair of downcast

eyes that can identify traps, easy as spotting

cracks in the concrete at my feet.

I’ve got sageness on my side now

in this thirty-something misery;

I wear it like my favorite perfume,

but it can’t calm the urgency of feeling

like I have to fix everything today.

I wait in line, hesitant to take a swing

at the pinata, not sure if wings or horns

will escape and follow me home tonight.

This polarity is not a pretty thing

like a vintage yin-yang pendant.

It’s too complex for any one human

to fix, just like trying to skip rocks

against the moon from this angle

here on Melody Hill.

 

I hide it well, most days: my need

to scream, but today it feels impossible.

It sits in my throat like a wick,

just above my gasoline-soaked heart,

both ready for a spark to ignite,

incinerate the label of burnout.

I burn brightly; let that be enough

to light my way to the opening

of the artist lands I dream of. A place

I can stand with other screamers

and let my voice thrive in refuge,

where night feels different

than a stalker at my window,

and day feels different

than a public examination.

 

But right now, in this waiting line

eye contact is a nervous trip when

generalizations absorb on strangers’ tongues

like artificial flavor, so easy to believe,

but the chemistry needs dissecting.

Am I rare or invisible

in this world with eyes like tunnels

and minds like rusted gates?

The child in me wants to slam

my door, pour cement in the locks

and seams, let agoraphobic fears grow,

but as the poll worker motions me forward

I am brave and do not tremble.