Even worms bleed.

That’s what I learned in kindergarten.

We had this class-wide compost bin;

a big, filthy heap of dirt rotting indoors

and each of us had to bring in one worm to fill it –

Because the best way to observe the sanctity of nature is to disturb it.

My Dad and I trekked out into the rain – 

onto sidewalks of waterfalls

and sea-foaming streets –

looking to both the prize and our steps 

and found one at long last;

an enormous, fat, red egg-noodle of a worm

swimming in cement

drenched in the torrent of a storm drain.

I made my Dad pick it up and put it in its makeshift home –

a faded cool-whip container filled with black potting soil and dread –

because worms are, obviously, gross.

And I refused to name it;

nervously watched as it burrowed in soil,

and brought it to class,

holding the flimsy blue of its cage far from my body,

as though it were radioactive waste.

We sat in a circle

and took out our worms;

over-turned containers of dirt and bugs onto teeny-tiny, whisper-thin paper towels on a burgundy, threadbare Berber carpet

and I continued to watch my new charge with a vigilant eye.

The teacher told us why worms were important –

why the environment was important –

why recycling was important –

and then she screamed.

Among the cross-legged circle of toddlers

one of the boys

was covered in blood.

Beige sweater drenched with splashes of cherry cool-aid,

a thick smudge of ketchup across his gap-toothed grin,

shiny Rudolph nose and cheeks of liquid rouge,

hands coated with a fresh layer of crimson finger paint;

each holding half of a worm

that he had torn in two.

My tummy betrayed me as he went to wash off; casting aside two formless figures which no longer squirmed.

I looked down to the disgusting red worm in front of me

that my Dad had found and plucked from the rain

and realized that it too, was full of blood.

that it was fragile

that it was delicate

that it was alive

and understood what that meant;

understood that even worms bleed.

To this day, whenever I step out

into doldrums of drizzle,

a haze of humidity,

or a fog of freezing rain,

I watch where I plant my steps.

Eyeing an asphalt ocean littered with little red bodies – 

dainty scarlet smudges –

supple carmine strands – 

all reveling in the rain;

I pick them up

and I take them away from the slough of sweet, sweet dew

and I put them back in the grass.

All because I know

that even worms bleed.

Picture it:

them, blissfully unaware of the industrious robins –

the stealthy steps of speedy city sneakers – 

the impending return of an erstwhile dormant sun –

all wallowing in the wondrous rain

on the streets and sidewalks where clumsy giants tread…

and Me; all mortal sighing and elbows

looming and ominous,

unfathomable and vast,

poking and prodding; just trying to help

making a mess of their happy day

in the guise of a possible predator.

Stopping every few steps –

obsessed –

like a madman fussing over his calculations.

twisting in a summer skirt as the autumn wind blows –

a visceral pose a la Marilyn Monroe –

trying not to touch bare knees to freezing blocks.

Bent over – 

clawing at pavement with frenzied fingers wrapped in kid-gloves

with no better excuse than,

“I’m… helping them… ”

All the while suppressing a gag;

Hiding the urge to puke up a can of alphabet soup

and hoping that this might somehow make me “better”.

All because I know

that even worms bleed.