I was seven years old when
you made me afraid of that
dark land behind the garden,
beyond the sight of the house.
A hop over the fence line,
where the trees were so thick that
it felt later than it was
at any given moment.
Late enough, at least, that yours
could be an adult moment.
A night one, where the dark was
strong enough to follow me
back indoors and trap me at
the table as we sat, with
all that laughter from our guests,
in the afternoon’s sunshine.
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