soil.

two kinds of love comparable
only by the amount of time
it would take for them
to ripen within my
withered garden heart--
two worms to weave in
and out of my nose,
my ears,
slippery to the touch;
i can't grab them.
they take shelter behind my tongue,
they like to tickle it,
and i cough, hack,
swear, spit, apologize,
cry.
I sing to them so they'll wriggle
free,
sink to the depths of my gut,
to be devoured in acid and guilt,
but they stay lumped in their cavern,
reproducing and reproducing,
tens of thousands of tiny worms
to infiltrate, become my organs,
until they spill free from my mouth
and i choke--
i swallow them down
and they crawl back out.