I pick the burrow, by Melissa Chaconas

I pick the burrow
but there’s nothing left
to pick- brown greenish earth mud swirls around
down the
rabbit hole
– I pick anyway
and the earth bleeds… I
stop in painful shame and
I too feel the hurtful burn
of uncertainty.

I’m fine 4 a while then

I’m fire 4 A while THEN

I’m fine 4 a while then

then hours
later out of hateful habit
I take the scalpel &
look 4 something that isn’t here

I scan the walls
run my fingers over the
dried paint & mounds
of unseeable dirt

pile, bubble
but there lies a family, a unity
within the art of complexity

I want to pick at the old wounds
(at this house with no wind)
but I can’t reach them
there are far back &
my fingers are too big