S t e v e T o m a s k o
K n o c k o n W o o d
It’s dark where you live.
It’s always dark
and that’s a good thing.
You’re a long-horned beetle grub.
White, glistening curl of flesh
tunneling under the bark
of a dead black spruce.
You’ll only know the light
one of two ways. Either
you grow and grow,
metamorphose into an adult,
bludgeon your way outside—
or you’ll hear the knock,
the persistent hammer
of the woodpecker’s
beak driving closer and closer.
Pileated chips fly, that first spark
of light. Then a different
kind of darkness. Maybe
you’re not a grub. You could be
curled on your side under
your warmest comforter.
Maybe there’s a knock,
knock, knock at the door.
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