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.