It's behind you. It's beneath
every thought - the peerless hunter.
By comparison, a shark is discreet,
lets you be senseless, dumb meat -
relieved of inner dimensions.
But little me descends,
scythes through your comforting blur.
It scours your unspoken core,
and implants an endless feeding.
Your very juices transmute into panic
as it grows and flutters between the worlds.
Hungry, a homeless genie.
Self is its shrillest register,
born of night; frantic, unconsolable.
It's bled you white, and still
it sucks, chewing and chewing.
Keep pumping out the barren eggs,
and the shrivelled fruit from your wishing tree:
but it will never consume you wholly.
Its need needs you for another feast.
Your knowing can't swallow its gape;
its squeak chases your words,
pirouetting through the darkest spaces.
And you don't have the flesh to expel it.
So dream on, little heart, dream on!
From the shadow behind passion and fear,
shape the ears, wings and pointy teeth
with your wild and rolling ache.
The squeaker grins into your groundless life.
It knows you so well by now,
your miscarried child with his little bite.
The bite that tries to release you.
From: Travels in the Middle Land, Dhamma Moon, 2013.