"vermicomposting"
by Tazi Rodrigues

i fall asleep to the sound of you
tearing the newspaper into strips.

in front of you, a cedar basket fills
with shredded cardboard, a second

bed forming at the base of ours.
before we moved here, i looked up

this house’s history, found its frame
in photos from a century ago. single-

family dwelling now converted
to apartments. red bricks like clay &

soil. by the old fireplace, the worms
reach upwards to the garlic husks &

coffee we’ve collected for them.
kitchen scraps scooped up from

breakfast on the balcony, watching
yellow leaves fall to ground. you’ve

been chopping our banana peels—
their stems the perfect den for globed

eggs glimmering, hatched like flame.
when we moved here i said i wanted

to grow a forest: long trails of green
onions in the windows, mantelpiece

basil we rescued from the half-off
produce section, new celery stalks.

thin strips of paper torn meticulously.
hands full with bedding for our worms.

 

 

 

From The Malahat Review's spring issue #226