Phobia, as Pantoum

Meg Eden Kuyatt

My father’s tractor, an 80s blue Ford

with shoddy breaks. He didn’t tell me—

I learned at the top of a hill, 

feeling it roll toward the road.

The breaks gave out; he told me

to put it in gear. I was twelve,

rolling toward the road. The worst feeling:

having no control of your own body.

Put it in gear! I was twelve & only knew

the dial was somewhere between rabbit & tortoise.

I had no control of my own body.

My father jumped in & turned the wheel.

The dial was somewhere between rabbit & tortoise.

This is how I thought I would die when

he jumped in & turned the wheel.

I let my father push me out of the tractor.

This is how I thought I would die when 

his body hit mine. 

I let my father push me out of the tractor

& we rolled like stunt doubles.

His body hit mine,

& the tractor turned over behind us.

We rolled like stunt doubles,

my penny loafer—alone—at a distance.

The tractor turned over behind us

like an animal, wounded. 

My one foot bare, the other still in its penny loafer.

Oil poured from the tractor’s side

like an animal, wounded. 

A week later, my father asks me to mow the lawn. 

I remember oil pouring from the tractor’s side.

I tell him I’m not ready. 

A week later, my father asks me to mow the lawn. 

You have to get back on the horse, he says.

I tell him I’m not ready. 

I’m afraid of what I can’t control. 

You have to get back on the horse, he says,

but I learned at the top of that hill

I’m still afraid of what I can’t control:

my father’s tractor, an 80s blue Ford.