In his bed, I am publiclike the frog, in the marsh,my body’s revolting glandularsecretion before the eyes of the boys whoknow me. Not well. It is alwayswell enough. My apologies – flieson a good man’s tongue, flieson the perfect I used to be. IfI could fly to any wallin the world and listen, I would stayhere. It is not fear. Fearis an old roommate, calls in the middleof dinner. Fear knows he is ugly.Fear has started working out. Today,fear ran three miles – sweatonto the walkway down by theriver where the rope swing is, whererocks twist Fear’s ankle, wheremy grandfather lives. I stand withhim, holding hand to innocenthand, believing nothing. Grandpa usedto wrestle Grandmother to the nighttimegrass, and they’d make whisky conversationloud enough the whole neighborhood knew.My grandfather would never hurtme, and I will never expose that sackof growing negatives tucked underneathmy dress – amniotic fluid – the emptiness Ikeep with me just to feel it. Fear runs byand he is handsome. My grandfather shouts greetingI lift my fingers – a halfway guilty escape.____Sage Calder Hahn grew up in a rural part of Northwest Connecticut and currently lives in Boston following her graduation from Brandeis University with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and English. This is her first published work.