Emilee Wigglesworth

Earthworm

I wrote my mother a poem. I wrote my mother
back into existence. I fed her sticks and leaves.

I gave her roots this time. I cut an earthworm
in half because one half will regenerate (if it’s
a clean break). I flipped a coin to see which of us

is heads and which of us is tails. I wrote
my mother a letter. My mother misplaced
her notebook and all the pens ran out

of ink. My mother changed
her last name, now we share nothing
but a face. I wrote my mother a dream.

When I woke, I misremembered it, she was
smiling in my direction. I stranged my mother.

The memory of the year she worked as a scare
actor in a haunted house. The strobing light
effect that made it look like my sister and I
were running in slow motion through the hallway.

One night, so scared, a woman broke her bone
and it stuck out of her skin. I’m not sure if I saw

or just heard about it. I poemed my mother
into metaphor until my poem mother
pretend scared me.

I don’t remember the sirens, but someone
must’ve come to help. Relocate the bone.
Shut the house down for the night.

I drove my mother underground. I mothered
the wound. I cut the earthworm in two—
I wanted proof.

I unearthed the poem for myself
so I could be the one who lives.

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Emilee Wigglesworth (they/them) is a queer, disabled poet from Florida. They are an MFA candidate at North Carolina State University. They are the recipient of the 2026 AWP Intro Journals Prize with work forthcoming in Florida Review. Their work is also featured in Defunkt Magazine, Susurrus and Door Is a Jar. Their writing is often focused on grief, illness, family, memory and identity. When they’re not crafting poems, you can find them at the nearest body of water, making wishes on discontinued pennies.