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.
Nighttime now,
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.
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