Worms
The can is cold against her fingers.
It’s hidden in her grip beneath
the table, her nail tracing the cool tin.
Her feet don’t reach the floor,
Twinkle Toes only brushing the tile
as she kicks. If Mom was there,
she’d tell her to stay still. If Mom
was there, she wouldn’t be wearing
shoes in the house. She hasn’t touched
her spaghetti, so Dad’s giving her that look
she hates. It says, I don’t know what to do
with you. So she gives him one back
that she hopes says, I don’t know what
to do with me either. But they both say
nothing, so he continues to eat in silence
as she finally lifts her fork to her mouth.
It’s cold now, its flavor almost stale,
and she winces because it never used
to be that way. So that’s what she says—
Tastes different from Mom’s, but all he hears
is Mom, Mom, Mom, and the can’s lid pops
open. With an ugly squelch they slither out
of her hold and splat against the table.
She tries to grab them, but they’ve found
a home in the noodles. She knows that now
they’re out they’re not going back in, so
she doesn’t even try. She just buries her hands
in the bowl, squeezing until they’re red and sticky.
She’s guilty but she’s smiling as she clenches her fists,
and within her grasp, they’re boneless and free.
About the Author: Madison Woodle is an undergraduate English Liberal Arts student at Francis Marion University in Florence, SC, and has had poems and short fiction published in the campus undergraduate literary journal, Snow Island Review.
Image Credit: Public domain image originally from The Naturalist, London: Simpkin, Marshall,1865-. Courtesy of The Biodiversity Heritage Library
As It Ought To Be 