My twin splits a worm,
chipped spade crude knife. !10!!10!
Will either half survive
he asks before I move !25!
to another state, a dorm,
a roommate who is not !10!!10!
blood. Not even a worm
knows what it’s like to live !10!!5!
apart. The firmer he presses,
the faster it writhes; how !25!!10!!5!
the more time passes through
me, the more I become !50!!10!
two selves—a separate
!50!doorknob, a deeper grey.
Hay on the lawn puddles.
!50!Bermuda grass shoots
through the dead.
!50!The worm breaks a
part a little further.
!50!In the process of
dismantling my room,
!50!I am of two minds
whether a house can
!50!return to what it was
if nailed back together.
!50!As he lifts the shovel,
my brother may not see
!50!myself in him. But
there he is in me,
!50!gripping the handle
to halve a life
!50!of my own.