My mother kneeling
next to the hibiscus
with a little hand shovel
planting hyacinths
when I came to watch her.
I must have been seven or eight,
wide-eyed at the vague thing
flopping in her hand.
She reached in, fumbled
through the soil. When she found
the other half of the worm
she placed it at the base of a flower
to show me that it was still alive,
that both halves were working
on their own, wriggling
back to their underground world
to be useful:
It’s gorgeous in Boston today,
everyone is outside sunbathing
just like that day with the worm
and I know I had a dream about you
again. Or maybe it was your dream
and I was conjured to dwell there
so you wouldn’t be alone. Why
I anticipate forgetting the clouds
today, their shapes, how lifelike
they are when they drift…
why I remember the worm…
it has something to do with skin
and pink smokestacks. My palms
red before callusing
after working at a steer,
or dragging a heavy load…
Oh God, you hath given me two hands
but only one heart.