Only sometimes does homegrown bedrock glow moneygreen.
Sometimes rock whines mommy. Sometimes rock coos baby.
Sometimes rock calls late with the mortgage. Sometimes rock
knits shoulder blades right where you can’t pluck.
Early mornings something doesn’t sit right over the sink. Sits crooked.
Slumps askew. Body doesn’t lay the way you left it. Squinting gets
you nowhere. You squat to the floor and feel around. Stop. Smell
for it. Shrug. Still some dangling something modifies you.
Smackdab midchest you feel lumpy empty. Sniff. Sniff.
Like those days we grab our own pickaxes and head down to the
mine. We hum worksongs. We sing hymns. We chip worry stone.
We gather moss. We lie flat. We scratch at the mineshaft. Not
toward exit but deeper to the core.
Source: Poetry (April 2014).
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This poem originally appeared in the April 2014 issue of Poetry magazine