.
.
The worms were there waiting the day we set out
With our luggage lighter than plastic
And hearts beating for the unknown.
Behind the signs we would not let guide us,
At all the improvised stations on our way,
The worms were stripping small trees
That stood in the empty spaces, disregarded;
Even the cocoons that fell at our feet
We kicked away, the way we we scuff at stones and gravel
As we walk
And it was as though, shunning the signs, following them even,
We knew where the road was taking us.
We grew weary: delight in the land that lay open before us
Withering in our breasts
With every step
Knowing as we did that no matter how broad the vista, the space was cramped
Without a guide. But all this while
The worms were spinning; kind-hearted worms,
Spinning our trails into threads
Weightier than our bodies and more useful perhaps
Than the wheels that turned beneath our buttocks
Taut-muscled in the evening. From our wretchedness they wove
A map:
The line we walked and did not see…
Until, at one of those breaks along the way
We were startled to find ourselves in the place we were headed
And that our journey—through stations we’d dismissed and others
On whose thresholds we’d left pieces of ourselves—
Had had a purpose after all.
We lie on silk, and smile;
Butterflies flutter against our faces.
