Filing

The earth’s core is iron-nickel
spinning inside tightly wrapped coils
throwing off a magnetic field.

Prick my paper-thin skin
and lava-blood rises up
to fill it in. Call them

mountains. Call them islands.
Call them cliffs. The ocean
out and in while a diver times

his entrance. My core is iron-nickel.
It’s in the center. Not cerebral.
I’ve tried to mine down into

the crust. There must be a way
to tap this. What rises to heal;
metal filings, hip-hop rhythms,

internal slant, solid, and off
rhymes. It’s in the chest, behind
the bone and flesh. Nowhere

near the mountaintop, the apex
the cortex. It’s centered
inside but not in the mind.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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