Sopchoppy Worm Gruntin’

Bait, that’s what they swear they’re looking for
when they shove their wooden stobs in the ground,
rubbing them briskly with their rooping irons.

But I’ve heard there’s a monster under there.
Sixty feet from tip to tip, at least.
Twenty wide from side to side if an inch.

Killed Denise’s uncle back in seventy-two.
All they found to bury was his stob and iron,
even his pickup got swallowed that day.

Saturday nights, when beer and whiskey flow,
minds get turning to revenge and then
out they come to the field where it happened.

Vibrations bring red wigglers and Indian blues,
all squirm and squiggle, to the surface,
but the big one’s never been seen again.

Deep in the karst, he don’t give a shit.
Keep it up boys, maybe someday
he’ll think about you as much as you do him.

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Jennifer Schomburg Kanke lives in Florida. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in New Ohio Review, Massachusetts Review, Shenandoah and Salamander. She is the winner of the Sheila-Na-Gig Editions Editor’s Choice Award for Fiction. Her zine about her experiences undergoing chemotherapy for ovarian cancer, Fine, Considering, is available from Rinky Dink Press (2019). She serves as a reader for The Dodge and as a Meter Mentor in Annie Finch’s Poetry Witch Community. Her website is jenniferschomburgkanke.com.