That Mole

That mole. It bled

That night

In the room with the

Curtains you adore

“Look at the curtains!” you

Said “Look at the curtains!”

But I was looking at

That mole

With its erupting black antennae,

Fossils from its

Previous diseasing.

I asked you to come back

To bed, but

Your eyes were wide and

You stood, owling on the floorboards.

Lips taped, stricken before that

Mole – that mole that could

Eat you up, swallow you whole,

Drown you, all the while

Dribbling by your side;

Vomiting life onto

Those hips of yours.

And Google had

All the answers,

Of course.

All the wrong ones

From babbling strangers

Kept up one night by

Their own diseases in

Hospital beds,

Recovery beds or  

Death beds.

But not yours:

Yours is the bed where

We fumble.

Yours is the bed where

We’ll lie, unspoken,

Ideas strangling –

Worrying.