Jeanine Walker

A Plea

Dig into me with your heels,
                                with the blunt end of a shell you’ve broken in two and dulled down.
Dig so I can feel it, but don’t break the skin:
            blood on your hands is as good as a call to stop digging. 

                        This is what I do. I close the door
                        to my room and don’t answer when
                        you knock. But I don’t want you
                        to stop knocking.

There are two ways to dig: for your pleasure, or for mine.
                        Nothing now                   will please both of us
                                                                                    at the same time. 

Dig into me with whatever you have: your bitten-down fingernails, a wooden spoon.
Just dig.

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Jeanine Walker has been recognized with grants from Artist Trust, Jack Straw Cultural Center and Wonju, UNESCO City of Literature. She has published poems in Chattahoochee Review, Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review and elsewhere. She has a full-length collection forthcoming in 2022 from Groundhog Poetry Press. She lives in Seattle.