There are things you can only talk about
once you are far removed.
Things you look at with sideways eyes,
and stare at across a full room.
Which with spindly legs do creep the surface,
hoping for a damp place to fester,
to nest, to gorge on sorrows full bloom.
There are things that are never cool enough to pick up,
that stay white-poker-hot and smolder,
yet the wound never cauterizes.
You can stay bent and aching,
forever stitching the undone lesion;
or sit with your ice cubes clinking, then melting, then gone,
and stalk the feeling to its roots,
and find yourself then deep in the mud.
I remember the dark, musty, suffocating dirt.
Recognition at having dug myself a hole,
needing to decide if it were a grave,
or momentary respite,
and the anguish of having to climb back out,
The realization that it was much harder than falling in.