Three Moldy Stitches
By Olivia Wachtel
The worm stuck like gum,
melting flat into concrete,
a contorted corpse
because I could not
save him from the sun without
pinching his thin skin.
The internet told
me to cut out the cactus
rot but now it just
looks like I tore off
its scull flap like a hangnail,
left open to die.
The trees at the stop
light stopped dancing years ago:
now they slowly scream,
swaying under the
mildewed sky, the same grey as
an infected burn.