into a place where
long worn grooves of
deep body habit
flourish in the dirt
making mud pies in
a hot back yard
the taste is bitter.
hugging the ugly of
the deep body
its grease and sweat
and pungency its
freely unwashed
hair and legs of fur
its old Lilith.
mind mouths
this will and
what not but
deep body habit
is worn so easily
and biologically
words are small.
Poem: Marie Craven, 25 January 2017
Photo: Brad Helmink, Unsplash
