Earth/worms

A poem from the Owner

After class, I saved a worm,

it was dragging its fleshy body across the rain-slicked concrete,

inching desperately toward the heavy scent of petrichor.

I had taught my kids how to decode new words an hour before,

one of the words was, “Immortal,”

they sliced it up, Im/mort/al,

untouchable by death,

now dissected by tweens for them to understand

the gravity of something that never dies.

They asked me if we were Immortal.

“No,” I had said, “But our memory lives on.”

Statues are erected,

names are carved into stone,

stories are passed down.

Humans are like worms,

rooting through the dark to survive.

What will they say about me?

A teacher in a small town teaching kids how to pronounce words.

A wife, a daughter, a friend, a writer.

How far will my name stretch past my death?

Im/mort/al.

I watched pinched the worm into my hand

then tossed it into the grass.

Even though it cannot save me from my own struggles,

I shall be remembered, even by a worm, of my humanity.