Fear is its own low country

after Aaron Coleman

As it coalesces around us, we feel
sticky to the touch, thrust into awkward air
like a clot coughed clear out of a lung, tree-shaped.

Of course, this moment always exists,
lurking around the corner like boys who skulk
behind the Arco commanding strangers suck their dicks.

Is that not poetic? Shall we try again? It is despondence illustrated
in skin, the way rain stings when we wish it wasn’t raining.
Same as when those boys’d sidle up alongside

by the bathroom later to escape the rain; in some small form
a beating would ensue. Now the boys are voters.
They own lawnmowers, listen to podcasts,

gripe about the price of gas, extol the virtues of steak.
Their sons or daughters will only ever be sons & daughters,
not like peppered moths or bifurcated cardinals. Not mistakes.

For many it takes little convincing: this is a serious case. We must break
out the old mechanism of delay; it is best to slow down—or
reverse—when the brevity of our breath is made certain.

But fear is the state of unhinged reaction and retaliation. As it expands,
unfurls & plants its flags, we must remember its populace
are all foxglove in July: us! right now! forever! please!

Even when one is tempted to cradle the tender-lipped trumpets w/ two fingers
to savor their sweet scent, may a stoic friend redirect that wayward hand
& say Pay those no mind. We have learned to tolerate them.

What can you answer?

many learn the hard way not all creatures
exist as we’re told, or assume. old echoes
reverberating thru maternal haplogroups
test the mettle of conventional wisdom
daily. we are no more the masters
of our environments than our ancestors
nor are we slower to suspect tyranny
has taken the face of progress.
we seem slightly more obsessed
tho w/ the illusion we are in control.
we hunt w/ the impunity of kings,
take pride in the grind & our fitness
for honoring contracts binding us
to the blood-soaked alter of civility.
where is the god who will help us
get to work on time, save us
the thousand-dollar overdraft,
protect us from a bad ex, cancel
those outdated subscriptions, guide
our wayward school districts to equilibrium? a judge
who never set foot in my forest,
or shared a smoke w/ me in the rain
ruled in my childhood in such a way
that on tuesdays here two decades later
students are informed (over snacks & treats)
of their inherent sinfulness & deceitful insides,
the absolute necessity of their obedience
to gospel. once, a king made a killing
of something sacred & three centuries
later pan-pubescent priestesses realized
themselves & the goddess by becoming arktoi,
she-bears, belonging only to their wildness.
every cult has its time, & occasionally vestiges
remain. but tonight the dogs have gone hungry
& the bear can’t afford to feed anyone. tonight
the fawn who ambles between the truck’s
trembling beams is beloved of no deity;
tonight he is meat.

Garnet Juniper Bennet is a writer & seeker of truth from the American high desert who now practices their craft in the Pacific Northwest. Their work has been featured in publications such as Rattle, Crab Creek Review, Salamander, Waxwing, & Poet Lore. Their poem "Burnout" was selected for 1st place in the 2024 Crystal Ox Poetry contest, & their manuscript angel/androgyne was most recently shortlisted for the 2023 Catamaran West Coast Poetry Prize.