Poem of the Week 47

Song of the Worms

Margaret Atwood

 

We have been underground too long,

we have done our work,

we are many and one,

we remember when we were human.

 

We have lived among roots and stones,

we have sung but no one has listened,

we come into the open air

at night only to love

 

which disgusts the soles of boots,

their leather strict religion.

We know what a boot looks like

when seen from underneath,

we know the philosophy of boots,

their metaphysic of kicks and ladders.

We are afraid of boots

but contemptuous of the foot that needs them.

 

Soon we will invade like weeds,

everywhere but slowly:

the captive plants will rebel

with us, fences will topple,

brick walls ripple and fall,

 

there will be no more boots.

Meanwhile we eat dirt

and sleep; we are waiting

under your feet.

When we say Attack

you will hear nothing

at first.

 

Advertisements