K i m   S u t t e l l


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.