Tonight's Poet Corner: The Pit

The Pit
by Belinda Roddie

Two days into my self-imposed
solitary confinement, I dug a hole
through the floor in the hopes that
I would reemerge on the other side
of the ocean, defying physics long
enough to start a dairy farm in Ireland
and drink fresh milk in the open air.

The taste of cold winter would suit me
better away from these walls, these
barriers serving as "shelter," as "safety."
A prison without bars in its windows.
An anxiety as hard and heavy as
chains around my ankles.

I made a ditch only about three
feet deep, then sat in it with the
splinters of floorboards encircling
my tired body, the dirt clinging
to my shirt and collecting around
my eternally creased jawline. Light
never seemed so absent to me.

I pushed my shovel against my chest
like a sword protecting my heart,
defending myself feebly from external
influences, the fears accumulating
outside my door, never leaving,
and knocking louder and louder
each painful passing night.