Again the tunnel cracks my eyes. In my old bed my throat raw my throat closed and broken and 

full of flames. I get out of bed and walk down the hallway. The walls covered with webs. In the 

kitchen I pour myself a glass of water and look out the window. Outside of the window nothing 

but dark. I open the window nothing but dark. I go to the front door and open it nothing but dark.

 I go to the backdoor and open it nothing but dark. Here in the darkness. Here in the tunnel. Here 

in the bugbelly. Here in the darkness of the tunnel in the bugbelly in my own Dead Brother body. 

I shut all the doors and pour my glass of water down the drain. I walk down the hallway the 

walls clean of webs. I walk through my bedroom into the tunnel. I drive my hand into the wall. I 

make a hole in the wall.


I crawl inside it and go to sleep.




I find my way through seams in the air. The temperature. The smell of each tunnel. Each tunnel a 

different face I wear into the darkness. Where I donít need eyes. When I touch the walls they 

know me. My skin grows into the rocks. I dig into the tunnel and pull out the raw ore. I crack the 

ore open and clumps of veins fall out. I stretch them and put them into my arms. A glaze of 

smoke grows over my skin. It rises from my skin and leaves the tunnel. If I walked my Dead 

Brother body out of the tunnel I would find nothing but dull daylight. Cold and glass.


Dead Sister we are made of heat our heat is the trace we leave our heat seeps up from the ground. 


A.T. Grant lives in Minneapolis. He has a band called New South Bear. You can hear them here: He wants to play music or read poems in your house (or garage or at your river bank or tunnel mouth). His writing has recently appeared in Spork, Sixth Finch, PANK, and others.