Earthworms

It is raining again this morning, and I am remembering

it rained then, too, the summer morning
things almost came to be. We lay crosswise

on the bed. The curtains grazed our heads

when they were quickened by damp wind. Outside
the earth was opening and the worms had surfaced,

blind. They have eaten every bit of dirt

that makes our yard. They turn the soil
the way, in bed at night, we turn the story

of the child whose heart we never heard,

the child who never heard rain. And we don’t
care, we let it surface — we open

ourselves, from time to time, to happiness.

Katrina Vandenberg is the author of Atlas and co-author of the chapbook, On Marriage. Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in The Southern Review, The American Scholar, Orion, Post Road, Poets and Writers, and other magazines. She has received fellowships from the McKnight, Bush, and Fulbright Foundations; been a Tennessee Williams Scholar at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference; and held residencies at the Amy Clampitt House, the Poetry Center of Chicago, and the MacDowell Colony. She teaches in The Creative Writing Programs at Hamline University in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and lives four blocks from campus with her husband, novelist John Reimringer, and their daughter Anna.