by Emily Carmen

Manholes allow access to underground structures.
I fell into one today and hit my head on
cement.  Now, my DNA twists about behind}
my eyes and turns from red to gold, and
back into the python that bore me.

I admit, I was walking backwards and
had my eyes closed.  After climbing out, I found
myself at the local butcher’s; each pig carcass
was a year old, their angry eyes accused me of not
paying attention.  The trees turned black
against the sky, and half a porker waddled by
to check my pulse.

If you would wrap yourself around the pain
behind my eyes, I’d stop reading Flaubert and
the Christian mystics.  I’ll wear myself out
remaining accessible; or are you pleased that
nothing can be done, and that I’ll continue to
fall, over and over again, a broken branch
past the crater’s edge?