A round worm wriggles,
its body stretched across
the sidewalk’s still water,
as if it knows its place
is in warm intestines—
like mine.
Is it still a parasite
without a host?
Is "parasite" a word shaped by context,
like how I am a wife,
but when my husband dies,
I’ll be a widow?
Or is it a constant,
like when my mother died—
and I was still just her daughter?
Perhaps I am not wife, widow, or daughter,
but just another parasite
also seeking a home.
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