BWR 49.2 Poetry Contest Runner-Up

It was a worm in the mind. It felt 

like a worm in the mind. It was a germ 

of music in the mind 

made muddy with puddles of grief. 

It germinated, made a music 

out of muddy me, splashing 

in puddles of grief that memory made 

once it had had its daily way with me— 

I worried. There was no way 

to say what grief could do 

to me once Daniel left and Liza died 

and all I did was stew 

my worry, fury-like, as my mind 

was curried by the sublime ladle 

that I now call Time. But when I went 

to lick that fickle ladle, I felt 

my violent brainworm writhe— 

I went lithe from the dread of it, 

this disease of song sung 

through me—a refrain that never dies— 

that to this day I can’t describe. Call it 

worm music. Call it beauty.

Call it a phantasmagoric signatory 

whose kiss has stamped 

the suicide note—like a love letter— 

of the corporate mind. 

Because once I said yes 

to a musical life, 

I killed the grief inside me, 

song sated the day that splayed before me 

and the whole world thrived. Yes, my worm 

my nerve, my whole life thrived. 

I chimed, I want to live. 

And so you’ll live— 

my worm sang back. And every morning since 

I’ve sung, I did, I did, I did.