I was small. They sewed in another gut.
Tucked in the midst of the viscera,
The thin worm slept, waited for the set day,
Curled and warm like a promise not yet made.
Now he wakes, stretches and whispers the word.
Dressed up for trade and all ready to eat,
He sends me out with all my dreams tucked in.
They will find for me a place to be seen.
This is, I am told, a gift; a dry kiss.
Sunshine is everyday now I'm arrived.
The kids with their still hair have it down pat.
I try and keep it tight, take steady steps.
With me, the blisters give the game away.
The thin worm is dying. Do I die too?