The dirt I dive through tastes like summer rain, Warm and sweet with fungus, like the littered Apple core that we ate last week. Bittered By the thought, I squirm on and call your name.
I cross paths with the slime I left behind, The familiar sticky feeling, filling Four of my five small hearts with ice, chilling My clitellum. One heart keeps hope in mind.
Up near the surface a sound that I heard Reminded me of your voice. I push, work My way out of the Earth. Atop the dirt My longing ends, thanks to the early bird.
Quinn Dewey is a writer currently working out of the Pacific Northwest. His non-fiction work has been published in The Washburn Review and has most recently been featured in the anthology, "Dead Girls Walking: The Green Volume." He lives with his lovely wife and powerful daughter. He is a supporting member of the Horror Writers Association
