There was once a man who was swallowed
by a mole on his own chest.
He shrank and was drawn in until
he vanished in the blood delta it had grown
to survive. No one heard a word from him for many months.
When he returned, his friends came and identified him
and he recalled them at once, but found himself
unable to respond to their questions.

Inside, the man knew he was still missing.
Cancer is not a country you come back from easily,
he tried to explain, and they soothed and patted him until
he was nearly sick again.

Spring’s a mistake, he thought.
It’s wasted on the ones
with easy lives. I want the green for myself,
all for myself.

It’s a myth that suffering always makes us noble.
It’s a myth that suffering makes us love more deeply.
There’s only one truth in suffering: that it hurts,
and that we disappear into it and we can’t entirely explain
what it meant to be there, and what it meant to come out.

He dreams of his red jungle most nights, and many days.
Every dark spot on his skin looks like a river’s mouth,
a point of fear to be wary of.
He is wary of them all. He is wary of re-entry.

But there are times he almost wants to go back —
back where he lived by hunting for the exit,
swimming for days awash in panic,
but fierce and alive because he knew then what he wanted:
the green for myself, all for myself,

and now he has to share it, and he doesn’t know how.