Digging
By Kathryn S. Gardiner

She’s a little girl in a ditch
thrown there by others
when I first meet her
and I touch her fingers when she
first starts to dig

“Hey, now. None of that,”
I say, and her hand is small in mine
her youthful cheeks round
when she smiles
“Let’s get you out of this hole
and go find the sun”
but her hands don’t stop

I wipe dust from her face
her laughter child-bright
and she curls against my side
like a bird seeking shelter,
I kiss the top of her head
and hope

“Stop digging,” I tell her
kneeling at her side
“What kind of life
can you have down there?”
“Not a good one,” she admits
like my words have weight
but her hands don’t stop

I visit her in places
where she’s behind locked doors
and people with badges
know her name
sit with counselors
trying to give her ropes and
teach her to build her own ladders

“I can’t come down there with you,”
I say to her
bending to peer in
“Please stop digging”
“Oh, I will,” she says
cocky with her ponytail swinging
“I know nothing good
comes from digging”
but her hands don’t stop

She starts to smell of grime
I don’t recognize
filthy with dirt I don’t know
but her laughter is still child-bright
as she makes promises
and I try to convince us both
that I believe

“Stop digging,” I order.
“Why are you doing this?”
She scoffs, eyes wide innocence
“I don’t dig no more,” she says
as she freshens her lip gloss
“I’m done with that stuff”
but her hands don’t stop

We sing along in the car
“hell yeah I’m the motherfucking princess”
and she wails to her reflection
in the sideview mirror
like she can’t see the dust
and for a night
I pretend I can’t either

“Stop digging,” I beg
“There’s a rope right here
It’ll be hard, but you can get out
You can make it”
She tosses me a look
like I’m talking crazy
“Oh, I know,” she says
“I’m not a digger”
but her hands don’t stop

She’s gritty to the touch
when I hug her
but she still curls against me
like a bird seeking shelter
and I cry into her hair, pressing kisses
because I don’t know how to shelter her
from a storm that’s underground

“You have to stop digging,” I say,
holding her cheeks
as she holds my gaze
“I will,” she replies softly
but we both know she’s lying
the sparkly eyeshadow doesn’t
hide the dust
and her hands don’t stop

I sit beside her
and say nothing at all
just listen to the unwholesome
scritch-scratch
of fingernails hitting stones,
and I know she’s bleeding,
she’s hurting
as she digs and digs and digs

She’s a young woman in the dark and the dirt
when I lose sight of her
praying
that she’s digging to something,
that she’s making some shape
I can’t see
that her hands haven’t spent years
digging a grave

I close my eyes
and hope