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.