Forage
1.
Digger, the moons
of your nails are
black. You dug
through night, and now
you dig through
dawn. You broke
to find, but now you
break to
break. And what you
mutter—there—
that is no prayer.
2.
Knowledge must have
a shape; therefore it
happens where
light can’t
get through. Where
light is thwarted, bent,
bent back,
resisted by the
form of the
thing, flesh, stem and
shell, says I
would rather be
myself than you.
3.
Digger, do you think
your hunger so
extraordinary? Pale
grubs knot together
in their sleep, you
will never really
part them. They know
what you are. Eyeless,
they keep watch
over your watch.
About the Author
Amelia Klein is completing her Ph.D. on Romantic lyric at Harvard University. Her poems have appeared in Tin House, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsehwhere.
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