Phobia

Its etymology you say is this:  foe—

as in rival who, as they eviscerate,

dons an oh-come-now smile, and of whom it is said

has skin in the game (yours apparently).

Bia, as in the Irish for food, as in victuals,

as in ... for thought, as in fare

Tom cultivates in his sky room—

grub farmed in his father’s urn.

It is noctiphobia; fear of rescue and nights

in light armor, of that man on Radio 4.

Foe-bia is a compound word, you say, serious now,

for lasting, unreasonable fear. It’s the half turn of  tears

that come too soon—cry me a river, I cried a river over you.

It’s pronounced phobia, I say—fear

that grows inside fear—fear of that long slow

light in the back field, of the girl lost there,

in the night, away for a dark year. Yes,

I say, it’s all that, and fear the rain will rend

the sky, drown stars, and fill my empty arms

for eternity. It’s a fear of living a first life,

of riding a war train to war, of my mother dying,

over and over, her deathbed lifted by rain

and carried through silken solitude,

tipping surrender flags above the door.