My doctor tells me I am as full
& empty as a window.
Actually, what she says is polyps.
I imagine mushrooms growing
along my insides,
delicate umbrellas glowing in the dark.
I am forest floor: network of one thing
but not another.
On NPR, I hear a story about maggots
used to clean wounds.
They eat dead or dying skin,
prevent the spread of disease.
A woman nearly loses
her feet to July’s sunbaked asphalt.
She says, I have a high tolerance for heat.
She describes the tickle
of maggots rolling beneath skin,
she host to hundreds of babies.
The heartbreak when they are excavated—
smashed garlic on a scalpel.
Home smells sweet & rotten.
I peel soft bananas off the counter, replace them.
(my self is the only thing inside myself)
Each afternoon sunlight finds my kitchen table between
the hours of not long & enough.
How do flies get in?—there is a maggot-sized gap
dividing wound & womb.
Flies pepper the window,
my fingers—sticky with what they want.
Poet Ashley Dailey is an MFA candidate in the creative writing program at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where she is a poetry editor for Grist Journal and host of the virtual reading series Chiasmus. She is the winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize and has most recently been published by Peatsmoke Journal and Oddville Press.