Your fears were simple long ago, easily
identifiable: the shape that moved
in the corner of your room late at night;
the spider in the basement where your mother
sent you late summer afternoons to bring up
the basket of laundry, your lives hiding somewhere
in the still-warm clothes; the long walk to school
in winter months when it was still dark. At least
then you could imagine, you might
predict what would hit you when you turned
the corner too fast on your bike, careening
into concrete, leaving you there waiting
for what comes next.