being home
my hometown is a hole.
familiar southern soil, baked in the summer heat.
i dig into the underworld, press my skin
against the warm earthen core.
won’t you come out? my mother says.
i say nothing. i only peer from my tunnels,
beady black eyes glistening with hunger.
it is too cold —
too cold up there,
and the bones are all down here.
.
i want to be with the bones.