The ear grows enormous,
one of its rings the size of a hoop
that tigers jump through.
Its wax is mined out biweekly
in a train of seven coal carts.
What is odd is that earwigs
do not grow proportional to the size
of the gigantic ear. They become
a trifle to the god-ear.
Yes, the big ear is a god.
Its hollow holds trumpets,
but also bazookas are in there,
and a vegetable patch.
The vegetable patch grows cherry tomatoes
that are the actual size of cherry tomatoes.
One day I strolled through the slippery cave
of the god-ear, and I stained the cuffs
of my pants with wax. It was at the apex
of the interval between mining times.
I plucked one cherry tomato for you.
It was the right size, love, to be eaten.
Why did you crush it with your fist?

Matthew DeMarco lives in Chicago. His work has appeared on Poets.org and in Ghost City Review, Landfill, Sporklet, Glass, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming from Infinite Rust, The Swamp, and DUM DUM Zine. Poems that he wrote with Faizan Syed have appeared in Jet Fuel Review, Dogbird and They Said, an anthology of collaborative writing from Black Lawrence Press. He tweets sporadically from @M_DeMarco_Words.