A Very Real Intelligence

A Very Real Intelligence

No one knows for sure which ship 

stowed the hammerhead worm in its hold, 

but no one either need be told 

there’s been a certain, sinister shift

in the soil, a culprit dicy to detect

as the stick sprawled across the trail

that suddenly proves less twig 

than tail. On the receiving end 

of allegations of hollow stem 

and root rot, the hammerhead

chooses not to comment 

on the wreck, keeping hypothetical

hands clean as it feeds instead 

on the ones in the thick of working

unseen to keep the garden

fed. “What’s all the fuss about?” 

it choruses from both sides

of both mouths, and in the heat of the day

we find ourselves with half a mind

to agree it couldn’t hurt to lean

the shovel against the shed, slip off

our gum boots and massage our bruised

heals. I mean for real, did we think

with force enough we'd crush its head?