Steve Tomasko

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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