Image for post
Image for post

Digging for worms
in the field
behind our house.
We don’t own the house,
but it’s our house.
We don’t own the worms,
But they’re my worms.
A man on a tractor
cut groves in the earth.
Chickens came to eat them,
but I chased them away.
My fingernails are the color of dirt.
They match my knees,
they match my face.
I wonder if the worm I see
stretches underground to the street.
What if it stretches to the city?
What if it stretches to China
and there’s a Chinese girl
about my age
who sees the same worm?
Maybe we’ll have a tug-of-war.
Or maybe I’ll let her have it.
I have enough worms already.

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