i didn’t think i could whimper
like a dog – tears and snot
dripping toward the drain
between gasps. i shake
against the curve of tub.
the faucet drips –
knob broken.
stop. stop.
worms fill
the tub – rising like water.
they burrow under my skin.
they aren’t real. they aren’t
real but still i wonder why
even a worm would want
to be in this body.
*
i’m jealous of infants
who haven’t developed
object permanence yet:
a toy, face can disappear
behind couch, hands.
but the baby boy isn’t
the only one to know
when someone in the family
is gone indefinitely. he knows
how often we die here,
how common the causes.
*
keep telling me what isn’t
real—my fear unfounded,
trauma ignorable, no time
to mourn, dying to become
dead like racism is dead.
*
the child finds an earthworm
on the sidewalk in front of
his house after the rain. he
prods it, remembers hearing
at school from another kid
how a worm split in half will
become two worms. he digs
into its center with long nail
until it becomes two, watches
to see it writhe with twice
as much life as before.
*
these thousands of pink bodies
filling this ovoid space:
the worms around my legs
squirm faster. they say
there’s no air down here.
the worms on top say
there’s plenty. you’re fine.
we’re all in the same tub.
*
older, the boy is online and sees
a video of a man with his face
pressed into ground. he thinks
it may be harder to see the dirt
layered on our faces but it doesn’t
mean it’s not there. he sees the man
squirm under the pinning of uniformed
arms. he wishes the man could free
himself by splitting in two. he wishes
the man’s severed neck could have
become two men, twice as thriving,
rising into the sun after the storm.
*
lying in bed i feel one
of the worms in my ear,
want to stab it.
tell me the worm isn’t real:
it won’t stop the knife
from being metal, sharp.