"The Fears" by Mitchell L.H. Douglas

Mitchell L.H. Douglas is an associate professor of Creative Writing and Literature at IUPUI, and is the reason I fell in love with poetry. His class unlocked poetry for me and made it seem more accessible than it had before. In addition to "The Fears" posted below, here is he is reading his poem "Tallahatchie" from his collection \blak\ \al-fə bet\. I recommend a listen.

The Fears
by Mitchell L.H. Douglas

I.
Bound in the wounded tale
of dream, more
than winding sheet,
entombed, perhaps—
hours of earth pitched atop,
the drop of pebble on wood,
grim rhythm, Reaper’s
open hand, leveled scythe.

I do not know the minutes ahead,
the number afforded,
what seconds can be bought
when buried. Time
is fickle host. No sun
to raise me from the pine;
the box as trap
before my time.

II.
…your open box tops,
upright pitchforks
& six-point stars.         Yes.
I know.

Time for new fears.

Flashback:

80s trips to Chicago—
Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall
summer soundtrack.
The drive from Iowa City
to the South Side,
involuntary dance moves
conjured @ the close of car doors.
Michael’s scarred tenor: serenade
in brick city air. Bare-

knuckled, sister’s stories
bruised their way to memory.
The welt that won’t heal:
how a group of boys cornered, questioned

Who do you represent?

No one, she said,

& she spent the day in their company,
the cult of Barksdale
her eyes through the winded city.

Memories simmer,
years wind above our heads
like the El, & my heart
throbs in my throat
when Dad says
When’s the last time
we saw Chicago?
Let’s drive.


III.

Sometimes, the city—
like memory—
is coffin. How deep
we are
below.





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