by Nazani Cassidy
do you ever dig a hole in your garden,
and wish for it to swallow you.
first your fingertips,
the dirt wraps around your
hand. warm, you think.
as the red grape tomatoes start weaving around
your kneeling knees.
the watch that grandfather gave you,
was suddenly embraced into
the red clay the mother made.
that invasive species of fennel that keeps erupting,
follows you now into the whole.
suddenly it smells of black licorice,
and you wonder what happened to the earthworms.
the rocks clicked against your arm,
closer and closer to the reason why
you needed the earth to hug.
you think of why your whole life you’ve loved tight spaces,
as the earth tipped you
upside down into it.
you’ve always loved mint,
and I think it heard you, because it twisted around your ears
like suddenly the mother listened.
sometimes when you were little,
you would sit in your closet and wait for someone to find you,
but today the eggplants did.
Earth opened its mouth wider,
and you didn’t hesitate to crawl inside, as the garden snail
distracted you with its lovely face.
the red lettuce didn’t budge.
now that your ankles passed the opening,
a wave of calm rushes you,
first with the head, and then calm finds all of you.
you look at the rainbow chard.
know and accept sunlight’s goodbye.
as if the mother needed to blink,
earth's eye closed.
you watched back below as it’s eyelashes wove back together again.
suddenly black licorice felt like light,
and you had to accept the darkness that had just
chewed you up.
you raised your hand to the dirt sky, and you felt
the triangle tips above.
you look the mother face to face,
you have enough carrots to last you a lifetime.