Kim Suttell

K i m   S u t t e l l

Log

She has a consciousness of the memory only

in the way a mushroom is food, meaty bits

of night and dirt, sponging life. Our god,

a hungry grub, transmutes cellulose,

light from light. Microbe angels with minikin

teeth nibble, nibble till we dissolve.

A chain of ants connects her to the root of all memories,

that whip of a stoat’s heart infundibular

through which blind kits and all our futures crawl.

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