collateral invertebrate
the deluge has come
with pipe-dream promises
of a cease-fire
to ceaseless rain:
worms writhe aimless
on asphalt—their water-gorged
burrows deserted
in violent surrender
of birthplace
before the tunnels caved
there was no time to count
heads somewhere
a child is crying
in the inertia of night
worms ascend
from subterranean haven
to breathe through damp
skin—cellophane pink
that splits raw
against the concrete
while hailstones fall
from the open
maw of the sky
at the surface they find
that there are worse things
than drowning
in domestic soil—
what of execution
far from home
by men with guns
their tongues foreign
some worms will break
free but death
waits: coiled
like a serpent
beneath the heels
of rubber boots
the truth: it is still raining
& worms have no hands
to hold each other—
nor to pray: even God
crumbles
in the aftershock
of wet bombs
that will ruin
whatever resists
whatever remains
cherry season
I swallow the pit
on purpose: I want to know
the taste of cyanide
like how I microdose death
& drop pennies
that never reach
the center of the Earth
tell me: did it hurt
when your life
digested you whole
I want to feel roots
grow in my gut
intestines entwined
I need proof
I’m not rotting: I devour
ripe stone
fruit from the corner store
& guilt burns
a hole in my throat
when I go home
to my empty
apartment: I choke
on gravity I sit in the dark
while takeout menus
mock me
from the kitchen counter
taunt with laminated
tongues:
“let us guess—another table
for one?” & again
you haunt
the balcony with your phantom
cigarette smoke
last year before
you died
we sat on a bench
& threw bread at pigeons
they pecked the ground
in sync mechanical
like wind-up toys
you joked that the birds
work for the government
& we laughed until
no sound came out now
that you’re gone
I see the cameras behind
their eyes red
lights blinking—
I’m under 24h surveillance
caught on live CCTV
while I ruin
whatever morning
fits in my hands—
another wet season
of breakdowns on train platforms:
I always think about you
when it rains
Dara Goodale (they/them) is a Romanian-American queer multigenre writer and university student living in Lausanne, Switzerland. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, the American Poetry Journal, Cleaver Magazine, Thimble Literary Magazine, Sky Island Journal, and more. Dara is a Pushcart nominee and was a finalist for the Gasher Press 2025 Bennett Nieberg Transpoetic Broadsize Prize. You can find them on Instagram @daragoodale and online at daragoodale.com