My fears, I imagine, are something like the oak’s
as it hears termites in its innards and has
nothing to do but wait.
A pain in the mind, prickling
Ready for fissure.
An everyday itch. An ideation from contemplation:
when the body seizes hold of an idea
it tickles itself with possibilities and ghostly hands
felt pressing behind my sockets.
They prod and squeeze. My arms
bulge beneath their pressure
like icing in a bag as it is squeezed onto cake.
My feet ache beneath bedsheets, freezing
for no other reason than blood itself, seized by the veins.
My hands smell like menstruation and I do not know
if it is my work that makes them, or some spark
that makes me smell rust like strokes smell of toast.
Clawhammers don’t fix termites.
Sulfer and charcoal may fix itches
but they too freeze the blood.
Nothing to do but wait.
Let the rot pass.
Something may grow in the hollow.