Intake

The plumber hauled the snake back up the line

to show me what had choked the kitchen drain.

A pale and tangled mess of silver twine

that grew despite the darkness and the rain.

It looked like nerves, or hair from some deep ghost

that pushed through iron just to find a drink.

It made a home of what I wasted most

and turned to solid life inside the sink.

It’s wet and heavy, dripping on the floor,

a braid of hunger pulled out from the dark.

It doesn’t need the light or open door,

it only wants the moisture and a spark.