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.

More Poems by Anna Maria Hong