I thought the hole might be some new orifice, and that in it, soon, I might find a tongue or teeth or a build-up of earwax.
I thought the hole might be the empty spot where I am supposed to have a heart, even though the hole was in my knee.
I thought the hole might be filled one day while I was sunbathing by wasps or tiny birds that would build a nest inside it, and I would hear the crunching sounds of hollow bones breaking every other step.
I thought the hole might cause pain or concern in most people, but I was growing used to it, even though it was still so early I hadn't decided if I was awake or dreaming.
I thought the hole might have been drilled or scooped out by someone, some mysterious admirer who had left a gift inside, but I stuck in a finger up to its second joint and felt around without finding anything, not bone nor blood nor basket of goodies, and it was very cold in there, in the hole, and I was scared to search any deeper.
Andrew Harrell was born in North Carolina and lives in New York. He writes found poetry on Medium.
