I, Too, Fear
By Heidi Campbell
I go in the direction I’m told.
I try, in mere minutes,
To harness a lifetime of unbothered wandering.
I go the wrong way once;
the eyes above the mask
tell me
I’ve erred.
But did they tell me?
Or is that the delusion of a plagued mind?
I go in the direction I’m told.
Eyes meet.
Eyes avert.
Eyes, once so seemingly suggestive,
now fail me with their distance and fear.
“It was never the eyes,” I whisper to myself.
I go in the direction I’m told.
Does the elderly man know that I’m smiling at him?
Does the young, frazzled mother see compassion in my eyes?
I grasp reality:
my eyes cannot speak.
They are helpless without their supportive sisters:
the lips.
I go in the direction I’m told.
I touch something without thinking.
I wonder, “Do I dare put this back?”
I, too, fear.
I go in the direction I’m told.
“How long can I linger?” I wonder,
looking at the fine print.
Eyes hustle me from behind.
I feel them,
imploring me to proceed.
I look back.
What do those eyes say without lips sharing the tidings?
Are they happy eyes? Angry eyes?
Flushed skin betrays my unease.
I go in the direction I’m told.
Craving expression, I realize
the new exchanges inspire insecurities.
Eyes stare at eyes.
Emptiness replaces community.
I go in the direction I’m told.
“I want the lips back,” I murmur.
They are the trumpets announcing kings.
They are security,
community,
and kinship.
They require no interpretation.
I go in the direction I’m told.
I retreat to my world, remove my mask.
With tired eyes, I sleep,
Haunted by empty eyes.