The Tunnel

The Tunnel opens inside me, shows its end-light to all.
A cup is flung, shatters on the far kitchen wall.
Salt shaker stands mute, is showered with the shards.
The microwave bears up, shoulders off the pieces to the floor.

The noise in the Tunnel? A lost train, speeding outward.
The light in the Tunnel? Flame, infamy, loosely-strummed rock guitar.
The Tunnel itself? Built for years, open for a few red seconds.
The chest where it lives? A cave-in blasted open.

My chest hangs open, the far light increasing within…
something’s coming fast, roaring, charging out to this side… 
the chef’s knife holds itself very still, waiting its turn…
and I push my chest closed and hope against hope that it heals.