English Mole

To push and push with raw pink claws like

hands of shin. To tunnel my love through wet

earth, wet stars — no one needs the underneath

like me. I give you permission to

grip me. To patrol the worm-drench of

my thinking. To bite a worm’s head and cure

the rest as cache. Your flesh, my flesh, your dead

as dead, buried like a feeling. To push through

that wet, a scrum of worms whittling

my skin like a premonition. To have pushed

mountains into hills, ragged sooth from the

slid wall of healing. “Nothing,”

said the suicide, “is as sad as recovery.”

To work myself forward like a noun or an entry.