Dread of what’s grown in the night.
Dread of metamorphosis,
of the branch blown down in the storm,
of the ghost hand brushing my face,
of antlers snagged in the starry wastes,
of the whole process.
Impossible gown. Impossible strap.
Dread of a handful of dust.
Of standing up. This couch.
What I don’t know and what I’ve found out.
What scuttles off on eight legs.
The law.
Dread of another toss on a Ferris wheel.
Dread of plastic bags snagged in trees
shook free and strangling me.
Dread of breathing, of hacksaws,
of being honest on psych tests.
How can anyone trust anyone
who doesn’t want to kill themselves?
Dread my red card will be rejected.
Dread I’ll be alone forever.
Dread I won’t.
—Dean Young
Dean Young was a quirky, original poet, the author of many fine books of poetry. He died in August of 2022.
