Tunneling through rock and dirt,
I create a maze, a temple,
a hidden world. I invite
you inside, but you
refuse—I’ve no blueprints,
maps, nor explanation
as to why I’ve spent
years underground—
my nails chipped, my skin
pale, my vocabulary
limited to earth, wall,
water, and turnaround.
I can’t describe the urge
to crawl on my knees
in darkness and mud,
flicking insects off my face,
to find the perfect cave
where bats screech
and the stench purges
hunger and thirst,
where the only light
filters through the small
entrance, and how romantic
this all is—to build
my own home away
from eyes and expectations.
I accept your refusal
and hunt again. This
time for a mate who
is not preoccupied
with square house design
and manicured lawns,
who understands all
journeys in love require
work and dirt, who
will wipe my brow
at the end of a long day
and continue the dig
when I’m too weak to ask
for help, when I’m too shy
to admit I’ve lost the way.
–
Cat Dixon is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014); The Book of Levinson and Our End Has Brought the Spring (Finishing Line Press, 2017, 2015); and the chapbook Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in LandLocked and Abyss & Apex. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.