after Kay Ryan
A hole, once unfilled, remains
unfulfilled until the ground
itself passes away;
there is no healing that sundered
dirt or patching up the once dug
earth; the hurt remains hurt,
even if you shoveled in some
substitute, a rocky apology
for what you’d done, the space
beneath remains prone
to reopening; it’s just the nature
of the thing, like old wounds
torn fresh from scurvy:
the way the gums crawl back,
the teeth exposed as if in anger
or in pain – the scars we deal with
shovels or with words, remain.
Originally hailing from the backwaters of San Jose, CA, Donald Raymond now lives in the tiny, cow-haunted hamlet of Alturas, CA, where he works as an accountant, because his guidance counselors never warned him that sort of thing could happen. He spends his free time studying Egyptology, cooking, and arguing with his cat.
You can read more of his work at Angel City Review, Arsenic Lobster, and Eye to the Telescope.