What We Were Afraid Of Before We Knew What to Be Afraid Of

She pulled her feet up when the screen

went brown and slow and pulling-down —

the childhood fear, the old routine:

the earth that swallows without sound.

I knew the facts. I had them ready.

The buoyancy. The actual rate

of death by quicksand: nearly zero. Steady

adult logic, offered late

or not at all. Because her face

was doing what my face did once —

not panic, just the total grace

of believing something. Just the blunts

of both her feet against the cushion,

the held breath, the body's vow

against a world that, without rushing,

might open — and take her — now.

I left the lesson where it was.

Sat on my hands. The television

kept going. Not because

I lacked the physics. The decision

was something else. Some residue —

the path to school, the soft spots tested,

the thing I did at nine: I knew

the ground. I walked it. I contested

every low patch. Just in case.

The screen moved on. She breathed.

Her feet came down, adjusted.

Mine didn't move for a while.