It Is

 

 

 

*   *   *

 

dread is in the ornate curls

            of the silver ring on my thumb.

it lingers on the windowsill

            and watches the snow that melts into the concrete

            a long, long way down.

it is the smell of rubbing alcohol

and it poses a looming threat

            in everyone who wears my name like a cloak.

it stinks, it is week-old garbage in the bin behind the store

--it is dead fish.

it is the pain of a sore tooth

            that I prod with my tongue…

it is heavy on my back and weighs me down.

it is the crack in the paint on the wall.

it is clothed as a sparkling Christmas light.

it tangles itself in the ribbons of a surprise present.

it lurks in debt and flowers.

dread is popcorn,

            it is sunlight,

                        it is the bedspread;

and at last it leaps forward and

            claims

what is mine.