Devil's Hole

Lisa Favicchia

I don’t know why I didn’t turn off

the garbage disposal, why I watched

Grandma’s rogue spoon sputter around,

its rose-petal handle fallen prey

to metal teeth, why my fingers teetered

on the edge, inched closer. I also don’t know why

I’ve never been to Devil’s Hole,

a place I only dare imagine.

Some days I picture a long, deep tunnel

dug into the earth in the middle

of a field, only 4 or so centimeters

wide and rimmed with grass, just big enough

for a toe to slip into unaware then fall

no further. Other days it’s a swamp

no one in town can remember

except that once a group of surveyors

and the rescue team sent out after

them were pulled through the bottomless

earth by their feet. It could be

a black drainage pipe, one that thrums

with the wings of hornets as the queen builds

their nest from her own saliva—

But without a doubt it is a place

you wish you didn’t want to sink into

all the way up to your teeth.