two poems

and that's all there is to it

[from the perspective of the dust mite]

so said the itch:
bedsheets take
(your advantage)
heaveforth gaping bloodstains
empty, or bare, or,
'til it's me on fire
in between threads
I cling to the tightest weave
heatseeking haphazard
freeze! hands where I can see them!
under the pillow
against down
together we adjust,
the feathers
subcutaneous excavation

so said the itch:
worming along 
her reedy vein
intradermal, outstretched, now
where will I find
fingers?
touch, or prod, or,
implusetransfer onto self, or fabric
each visit kills me
I die small deaths
whorls texture me away
my melt into nothing
salvation, she stills

[I have an innie belly button]

a sucking pink
her violent divot
accordioned into itself
rawness shields hunger
her mother's, hers
every fold a substrate
self-fertilizing
did she create this,
or she,
or the nurse?