This is not a poem, but a catalog of fears –
first, the obvious ones, like dying
in every possible or impossible way:
house fire, brain tumor, hurricane,
following too closely behind
a logging truck on the interstate. 

Then, the smaller worries: ordering at a restaurant,
making phone calls – to schedule a dental cleaning,
oil change, termite inspection – or my ears never popping
after a flight or drive in the mountains, clogged forever,
my world becoming muffled, distant, faint. 

I fear that I will choke on a piece of steak
or my daily supplements, so I switch to gummy vitamins,
consider becoming a vegetarian, buy a LifeVac
airway clearance device for my kitchen. I fear
that a car accident will leave me paralyzed
or in a persistent vegetative state,
so I stop making left-hand turns, drive miles
out of the way to arrive safely at my destination. 

This is not a poem, but a reminder
of what life could be without the fears that keep me
from things otherwise done without thought:
eating a handful of popcorn, becoming a mother,
swimming in the pool with my nephews,
pulling the trash cans to the end of my driveway, 

falling asleep without measuring my husband’s breaths,
wondering if they are always this jagged,
shallow, spaced so far apart, 

watching for his chest to rise and fall, rise and fall,
for his lips to part with every puff of air,
for the steady flicker of pulse in his neck, 

watching, waiting —
I shake him awake.