← v13n1, Spring 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 1

Dirt-eating Poem

Dear stranger, deracinate me. Pull

my head out like a turnip and spare

me the instructions for piloting

ruinous spaces. Amphibious town

made of mica, in which the cascades

tumble predictably, in which seasons

resurrect the same stinkbugs, tulips,

bellyaches—the illness of mistaken

wishes has branded me an outsider.

Pardon me: I’ll find the way to make

hope scarce and live with the correct

privation. The kind that isn’t borrowed,

too cruel or kind. Clothed in tongueless

solicitude. Fit for eunuchs or ghosts.