The History of Earthworms, and: The Climate of Fascism, and: In Country

The History of Earthworms, and: The Climate of Fascism, and: In Country Lewis Meyers (bio) Keywords poetry, Lewis Meyers, nature, life, fear, historical, consequences, relationships, love, substances THE HISTORY OF EARTHWORMS I was ashamed of livingbefore I'd lived a little.My eyes bent to the groundas I slid on grass or paddedin forbidden mud, therewhere earthworms were. They were unsubtle to come upafter rain, spluttering mutely,drowning in puddles thinnerthan a thumbnail.I helped them out and relishedtheir crawling at my feet. Fearing they'd snap like glassstraws before I did them the favor,I pushed and pulled but gently.Their properties were a studyfor one so ignorant of endswhen it came to bodies. Gradually I'd grow closerto what else squirmed.But worms were unsocialand didn't bite or carp.Persecuted the same,weren't we blood brothers? [End Page 129] We were worms, not serpents,though both shyly retreat.I grew up mild as milkas one of them. Then not.I stood on my own two feet,not watching where my foot fell. At the end, I can't get worseas I fall off my high horse.I expect to see eye to eyewith earthworms again, seethe luster I saw back then whenwhat was beneath me wasn't. [End Page 130] THE CLIMATE OF FASCISM The dog that will bite,ranging the stony yard,chimes in when the windjoins the chain-link fence.On the high hill,the wind is the airin crisis, making the lighta real headache; the positiveimmune to aspirin or reason.In the house, tossed negligentlyon a desk, coins of the realmdisplay the strongman's profile.Can't we turn this around?Grandmother, the last reader,turning the page back to her girlhood.Blurred blue flowers dotthe inside lip of her teacup.But this day or that a waste-pipe runs through the preservedforest into the swimmers' lake.And hidden in tough hedgesvipers like tire stripsslip out from the grinding heeland strike. But don't sayyou weren't warned by the onepickled in a pharmacy window,or afloat in sleep there, waiting. [End Page 131] IN COUNTRY The sun has come to power.Could it ever overstay its welcome?But it may need to dissolve an aspirinor two on earth in a piercing stream. Before the day is over, at dusk,the heavy drinker has fallen flaton his face in his own garden.Tsk-tsking in the grass; recriminatory notes under the hoods of trees.Yet a brown dog named Howeverhas escaped its chain and ranges free;he wants to take a raccoon by the hand. Night now. Bats rob the cradle;drops smaller than a needle's point tapagainst a house's windowpanes.Safe inside, in bed, a man reads Proust aloud to a woman until they sleep.But at the bottom of the road, dislikeof each other pushes another couple apartand finally fells the remaining elm. Will the sun change them back? It will not.The two following Swann's Way scentthe unfolding flower of the sunand are happy they're no one else. [End Page 132] Lewis Meyers lewis meyers (1934–2020) lived a capacious life of literature, art, music, teaching, and politics—but his true love was poetry. Early success included publishing in The Paris Review and Field. Although he dedicated his retirement to writing poems, he didn't return to actively submitting. Late poems have appeared posthumously in the Paris Review, Five Points, and the Hudson Review. The manuscript he left behind, Satan Flaneur, bristles with timeless pinches of wickedness, wit, and metaphysical wisdom.