Mick Muck

In the throes of dying I migrated
like they say cells from a foetus 
and their host cross the placenta
to adhere in one another - so 
I was absorbed into the furnishings 
around me and an elephant hawk moth 
hid in the rowan tree outside;
now privy to its whirring thoughts 
as I kept vigil, and a hawk
drawn by my own kins grief,
how hunger brings wild creatures 
to a house in winter when the snow 
lies heavy on the ground.

But the soft boundary is closing up
like the bone sutures of a fontanelle, 
with every word they learn when young 
marking each thing as separate: 
Now they complain I’m not 
a good friend, that I make 
a beeline to them from my dirt bed
where worms work the flint dark 
through and through, and they're 
afraid to be alone with me. 
One day I pinched them hard 
leaving two swollen welts like leaches 
or sloe jellies on a butter knife.

4 thoughts on “Mick Muck

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