the diamond diggers

Try it. Draw a line under your chair. A line creates a loose boundary between you and the floor. Don’t use chalk because chalk flakes (teacher’s dandruff pressed white like cocaine on grey felt). Use a fingernail. Press hard as you scratch the floor, cutting linoleum and making you bleed from your quick like a white flesh fountain pen. To draw, to write, to write perhaps a poem. To paraphrase, because to paraphrase is to be paranormal. Divide soil from stone and steel from sapphire. Diamonds grow underneath my kitchen, but I can’t access them without help. Stone refuses to move, blocking access for diamond miners such as you or me. I tap and scrape but flesh gives way sooner then stone. Flesh is insubstantial. Bone and meat are temporary lovers, bonded by birth and divorced through death. Such persuasive arguments stop even the most determined diamond digger.