Let It Simply Be So
        Alice Turski

A woman calls out of the blue to tell me
about her open sores. How they are turning black
and crawling with worms. Fleeing, she says, fleeing
for their lives. When they hit the floor she
always steps on them, but still they
jump. She is worried they know better,
that her body will be no good
soon, no good for masturbation,
no good for hibernation. She calls
because she thinks I am
the god of parasites. She woke up
one day and the worms had spelled my
name on her pillow. It's true, I have always
liked humbler things, things that cling,
things that can never be alone,
insecure things. But my flock is big,
I tell her that. I cannot possibly
remember which body is hers,
which worms, hers.

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Copyright © 2020 Alice Turski All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission