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Fear in the Reveal

Cheryl Pallant

Revisal, all. You, behind the tree. Come out with your hands up. Away from the soup.
Not a finger. No sling shots or anything from the hip without warning.

You, up in swarms. Away from the hive. No pretending hibernation.

You with the stylized hair, the red highlights, though you dodged yellows in school and
gladly go through them at corners. Bating fate, you say.

Hey you with the coup. You fully loaded. You hit by the book and carrying a bullet-proof
one, you think, even though you don’t. Not thoroughly. One load is another’s unload.
Full remains empty though you boast about the flood. At least be sure the latch is locked,
the fuse long enough.

You who refuse choice.

You who won’t eye you in the look. Who takes and takes and takes. Your corrosive strife
is illegally parked, the tires flat, ire pooling on the ground.

You buried your fear in a neighbor’s yard and readily trespass despite signs of detour
and arrows toward joy. I’m miserably sorry about your sorrows. You’re miles from
home and left your mind on broil.

Cheryl Pallant

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