You wish there was nothing
but paradise
in the holes of the earth,
open doors all around.
Instead, the hollow soul
of the pavement calls: hurry,
hurry up, before you are swallowed.
You are ashamed because
you do not know if it is just sadness
that makes the sewer drains seem bigger.
And there are burn holes
in the living room carpet:
your father’s discarded cigarettes.
Holes in the sinks.
The bathroom mirror is a hole too.
When you look in, teeth
stare back. Behind this,
more bruised mirrors.
When you turn the lights off
your body becomes a hole
in the darkness. You are almost
not there.
And when you sleep,
you dream you are a door
becoming a hole, fist-sized,
big enough to let
anything in.
© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim
Christine Klocek-Lim 
“…paradise in the holes of the earth” Love it!!! Wa are so surrounded by holes!!
Pat, yes, that’s exactly how I feel (despite the somber tone of this poem). Thanks.
“your body becomes a hole in the dakrness. You are almost not there.” . . . excellent.
Eric, thanks so much.
I love the way you said this — I’ll think abou tit tonight — 🙂
Andrew, thanks. 🙂
Very evocative Christine!Sangeet
Sangeet, thank you!
I don’t know how you think this stuff up. 😉 It’s like you’re talking right to me. Really good.
Janet, thank you. It means a lot to me that you’d say that.
A very sad tragic and lonely piece – perfectly encapsulates the darkened recesses of depressive thought.
Nick, yes, you’ve interpreted it exactly as I’d hoped a reader would. Thank you for that.