when she asks where she’ll go when she dies,
all her eight years surround her, leaning in,

eyes bright, hands on their knees, as if called
by the crack in her voice. And in the silence

after, as they shoulder in, eager for a sparkler
or magic trick, I know what I say next

will be a worm being pulled from the dirt
that breaks, half squirming deeper underground

and half carried back with these girls
who she was, until one made inconsolable

returns, hands cupped, to whisper her awake
just across the hall from where I sleep.