How curious the fear of sitting on the toilet
lest the worst kind of germ
climb upon my legs then spiral
deep within my bones.

The feeling resurfaces as I listen
to a mother and child at the public sink,
I lumbering above the danger in my stall.

I know its origin—the tense aura
of my mother demanding I not even think
about it as I fidget above the beasts,
scared my balance would give.

I hear her tell the boy to wipe his wet hands
on her pant leg because the hand dryer
transforms into a roaring lizard when it’s on.

I wish mine remembered how it felt
to be five, to see the world as something
she could stop from swallowing me.

How her voice could have eaten the monsters.
How the softness is what I’d recall.

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