Big Name


Certain kinds
of writers say

the book works
its way up, not you

but I know there is no real way
to dig but through, like a dog.

“I am working on a book,”
she says for us to say. I wonder how

that feels: I’m obsessed with a parallel person
who wouldn’t still have six messy piles

of old crossed papers and nothing up
on our short orange walls. “Everyone has

a book in them,” someone else says. Somewhere,
I guess, but most of these weeks swallow down

like a quick late lunch before I remember
I still have to dig out my name with my hands.

This parallel person would
know when to fight to the nail:

she would grow steel
paws to dig stones

beneath our days
already wolfed down.

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