Song of the Suicide

The compost brings growth to the garden. Every rotting body
drags itself into the earth.

Cremation is for those afraid of their flesh falling to ribbons,
streaming through hairy grass,

a festival for the end of the day. The sun gives itself over to storms
to imagine the scoured face revealed

when the rain ends and, heat-kissed, the world steams into newness.
Rawness. Salt of the earth where nothing grows.

The open wound of a rain-glazed empty highway. That highway
narrowed for construction to one choked lane,

but the only car is yours. Miles and miles of no exits and the only car
is yours. The doors lock. The car is yours.

-Andrew Kozma

Andrew Kozma’s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Subtropics, Redactions, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award. His website is An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump at http://www.kozma.curragh-labs.org/blog/.