Worms rest on ear drums,
the joy of vibration rings through the neck.
Tear the nerves from the back of my skull –
Occipital Neuralgia –
the pain of somebody stabbing
my head with an electrified fork.
Does your history tear through your present?
My past begins at the core of my spine,
shakes my bones, rips into my cranium.
I take a second to levitate
from the stress of this agony.
– Aaron Kent
Did I ever tell the story
of the dresser I bought at goodwill? How I took
it home to paint the color
of a pale green egg? And when I pulled
out the drawer, its side was spotted with what turned
out to be holes, burrows of a tiny woodworm. I found
out what I could, and learned with surprise
that the holes were not entrances
but exits. The mother woodworm beetle laid
her eggs in the gluey cracks of drawers, until
eggs swelled to orbs, grew legs and a hard
shell, and ate their way
out through the wood. I am telling you now,
because each small pain
is a grub, and I’ll wait for the Spring to see
if they set themselves free.
– Zoë Brigley
The poetic interview with Zoë Brigley is currently in progress.