CD Eskilson
Dystychipaphobia, or Fear of Accidents
My father flies through windshield
as a baby, a bloody smear that
never speaks.
Rather, that’s the future
that his mother sees when rear-ended
at the grocery store. She grips him
like a pail and scoops beach sand
down his throat. Spades fear
to form his bones. He teaches me
to drive with fingers kinked across
a lap, fried nerves scrambling for release.
::
I crouch inside my mother and do nothing
as we tumble through the dune grass;
her back snaketwists to keep the car door
off me, arms tatter into ancient scrolls.
At birth I brace for impact,
splay legs into an axle.
::
In 2002 a morning fog engulfs
the freeway, 200 cars colliding
into fish kill. Passengers
stuck captive behind fanged glass
while metal shrieks, oil ribbons
out in streams.
Years later here my sibling
sits, a plum tossed on the roadside.
As children I would crawl inside
their bed, body rolling over theirs--
again they tense and shoulder weight,
try to keep themselves from tearing.
::
Dropped stone plummets through
the surf, the coastline sieged by sea. Dashboard
stops the plummet of my jaw, my wreckage scattered
through the ripples. I haven’t found a proper way
to crash yet--
to plunge into a grinning wave,
to plunge like knife and pluck at thread
and feel lineage unravelling.
I linger like a closed mouth in the driveway,
will do anything to move.
as a baby, a bloody smear that
never speaks.
Rather, that’s the future
that his mother sees when rear-ended
at the grocery store. She grips him
like a pail and scoops beach sand
down his throat. Spades fear
to form his bones. He teaches me
to drive with fingers kinked across
a lap, fried nerves scrambling for release.
::
I crouch inside my mother and do nothing
as we tumble through the dune grass;
her back snaketwists to keep the car door
off me, arms tatter into ancient scrolls.
At birth I brace for impact,
splay legs into an axle.
::
In 2002 a morning fog engulfs
the freeway, 200 cars colliding
into fish kill. Passengers
stuck captive behind fanged glass
while metal shrieks, oil ribbons
out in streams.
Years later here my sibling
sits, a plum tossed on the roadside.
As children I would crawl inside
their bed, body rolling over theirs--
again they tense and shoulder weight,
try to keep themselves from tearing.
::
Dropped stone plummets through
the surf, the coastline sieged by sea. Dashboard
stops the plummet of my jaw, my wreckage scattered
through the ripples. I haven’t found a proper way
to crash yet--
to plunge into a grinning wave,
to plunge like knife and pluck at thread
and feel lineage unravelling.
I linger like a closed mouth in the driveway,
will do anything to move.
Commentary
CD on “Dystychipaphobia, or Fear of Accidents”:
This poem grew out of a prompt to discuss the circumstances of one’s birth. The poem diverged over time to become more interested in the circumstances of my anxiety, and then the circumstances of my family’s collective anxiety. In revision, I felt the rippling of events through generations and forms of inherited trauma emerge as the center of the poem. The inheritance of disaster found a home here.
The focus on car accidents feels specific to my family history. I am a third-generation resident of Los Angeles — the land known as Tovaangar by the Gabrieleño/Tongva people — and the area’s traffic is infamous. LA is one of the most car-accident prone cities in America. Bad car wrecks are incredibly common to witness, let alone experience for oneself. The potential for violence is nearly constant when navigating the city. One must also acknowledge the violence of displacement communities of color faced when these freeways were constructed. Growing up, I developed my own anxiety about this reality of living here. I also absorbed the fears of family members. The freeways are a magnet for intrusive thoughts.
I hoped to replicate the legacy of anxiety and violence in the poem’s form. The indents are jagged and jarring, injecting energy into the lines. The sections draw attention to the litany of accidents and fears. To break the poem into shards, too.
This poem grew out of a prompt to discuss the circumstances of one’s birth. The poem diverged over time to become more interested in the circumstances of my anxiety, and then the circumstances of my family’s collective anxiety. In revision, I felt the rippling of events through generations and forms of inherited trauma emerge as the center of the poem. The inheritance of disaster found a home here.
The focus on car accidents feels specific to my family history. I am a third-generation resident of Los Angeles — the land known as Tovaangar by the Gabrieleño/Tongva people — and the area’s traffic is infamous. LA is one of the most car-accident prone cities in America. Bad car wrecks are incredibly common to witness, let alone experience for oneself. The potential for violence is nearly constant when navigating the city. One must also acknowledge the violence of displacement communities of color faced when these freeways were constructed. Growing up, I developed my own anxiety about this reality of living here. I also absorbed the fears of family members. The freeways are a magnet for intrusive thoughts.
I hoped to replicate the legacy of anxiety and violence in the poem’s form. The indents are jagged and jarring, injecting energy into the lines. The sections draw attention to the litany of accidents and fears. To break the poem into shards, too.
Biography
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CD Eskilson (they/them) is a queer nonbinary poet, editor, and educator from Los Angeles. Their work appears or is forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren Magazine, and Redivider, among others. CD is Poetry Editor for Exposition Review and reads for Split Lip Magazine. They are an MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas. Find them at cdeskilson.com and on Twitter at @CdEskilson.
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