An Opening Up: For worms

Meghan Violet

The body is a cage, the stomach an animal. I’d like to

be fed and bathed.

I’d like to leaf through trees and knead a wet beach

without being too human.

I am too much flesh to lay in.

Dirt will not poke holes in my pores and make pretty

flowers.

Grass will not forgive my foot for stepping.

Rock will not rock me to sleep.

Will not clean my tooth in hand soap and keep it taut

To a locket, a closet, the gums of his teeth.

There is no time for these matters. The womb is

unsettled.

The mantle hot. My hand hurts. Pressing down on

that mad soil. That stovetop Earth breathes in spurts.

The people are choking each other, choking the water,

that other World.

The Sun could be its own if only the liver failed.

If only the great inhale meant birth and not what

began the killing.

We must diffuse bombs and link pinkies with little

strangers who breathe it in thick.

We must pry open hearts and cradle arms in handfuls

We must drag the lots around back and place a shovel

at their feet. It is time to plant seeds.

It is time to watch birds and not the panes they fly

into.