Worm Bin Sestina
Katy McKinney
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2015 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Margaret Reid, Traditional Verse
Mesmerized, I stand above you, worm, casting
a shadow on your work. Or is it your play?
Certainly, it's never-ending, the way you root
through our garbage, still identifiable, this dark
scattering of orange peels, apple cores, celery leaves,
crusts of bread. I've got my eye on you, worm,
though you can't say the same back at me. A worm
like you is sightless, eyeless in fact, casting
no sly glances at anyone ever. Which leaves
you seemingly helpless (no ears, nose, hands) to play
at sensing your way. But the dark
O of your mouth, and the invisible bristles on the red, root-
like skin that surrounds your tiny organs help you root
deeper into the darkness, the richness, help you worm
further into the moldy center, the hidden warmth, the dark
decay where food becomes unrecognizable, casting
off its cloak of respectability, freed to play
out its alternate identity. This transformation leaves
soil, sifted fine and dark as coffee grounds, leaves
me speechless as I pick up the hand rake and root
through what was buried here just weeks ago. The forces at play
are extraordinary; through your long digestive tube, worm,
passes our old garbage, and out the other end: a casting,
euphemism, if you will, for worm poop, manure, dark
fertilizer they'll sell at the garden store, dark
granules I'll sprinkle beside the stems, below the leaves
of my tomatoes, my marigolds. I'll spend an hour casting
this black gold dust onto the soil so rain can take it to the root
of every plant I tend. Humbly, I bow to you, worm,
in acknowledgment, in thanks, for your work, your play.
There's a darker side, though, to this ongoing play:
one that we don't like to contemplate, with our fertile, dark
imaginations. You know what I'm talking about, worm—
not that it would bother you, but the thought leaves
our mortal selves shuddering. What can we do but root
around for meaning, faith, or hope? Casting
our torn nets into the sea, which leaves us where? Oh worm, be gentle
as we start our dark journey, to the root of all we've never known,
casting off our worn out bodies, freed to play on winds of light.
