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The black mole, Nature’s metaphoric stand-in for this poem, not to be confused with beauty marks or Mexican chocolate-flavoured sauce


I didn’t used to be
a mole, didn’t burrow
thoughts and feelings
into tunnels, stow my
happiness in pockets
safe from badgering
and wolves.

I bounced to this fair
ball eager to stand,
to run on these two feet
and paint my toes in rainbow
hues and choose what I
desire—and I chose!

Do you suppose
there’ll come a time
when see each other
clear we will, not leaping
hole to hole, confused
by dreams and fleeing

When you won’t freak
by actual approach of
what you love and want
the most, and I’ll stop
seeing you as warning
signs of all I left behind?

Or will we, like the mole,
continue by avoidance
to control the everything,
the all that is, and nurse
our feeble sight by groping
for the lumps and curves
that seem to be but aren’t,
for the fevers they induce,
the answers to our dreams?

I do suppose we will.


© Elaine Stirling, 2012