Dug that hole in my backyard today,
trowel in hand, small black hole
where earlier this year tomatoes grew.
I buried that chicken bone.
Not dry and dead,
greasy dead, remnants of dinner
pieces hidden, clinging to tendon,
knuckle, all dead meat all dead bone
all the same and buried in my backyard,
covered and smothered in soil I'll use
to nourish other food.
my body of flesh covered and smothered
by blanket and pillow,
I see, my open eyes tracking shadows,
my mind centered on bones buried,
bones that should rightly move only
as decay and the worm wiggle,
but out there at midnight move of their own,
greased in gardening,
unsmothering, moving slow at first,
no mind to understand,
nevermind soothing then inflicting, infuriating
some semblance of purpose, writhing bone
this night will quest, will grow dry and snap
and reform and snap and a victim die, and another,
all born of consumption,
dry bones slake take,
from my garden first,
marking the end of all and all.