Worms
25 Worms Just as the butler-passed puff pastries, salmon-laden on a polished platter, slip from the living room’s saddened mahogany to mingling richies, we will evade you. Poolside with a stupid boyfriend named Stu after mindless sex, you tip earthward your faux fedora to our tiny interrogative bodies you know will die on the pavement you dare not walk with bare feet. Not wholly part of this world, vermiculate, tongues ourselves, we taper, nonetheless, to a stub, like a ticket or last night’s dinner conversation. If you can make it, meet us on the terrace when the over-watered ficus spills. Or, while repairing polo divots, mimic us— fleshy, spirited as any horse haunch, chicken neck, gecko’s tail. And though we screw like Archimedes, lick the spit off stilettos, in the snake of a body on the shower floor, you may find yourself staring too long. Finger, annelid, we wear your indiscretion like wedding-ring mold. The decision is yours. Stu awaits somewhere, holding a tray heavy with faux fruit and cheese spread. Already, you can feel the lump in his pocket where you know squirms the ring he’d love to thread on you. ...
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