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Diplopod

You found a baby millipede in the garden. When you saw it under the roots of a weed you'd pulled it reminded you of another creature, fast asleep several thousands of miles away. You leaned down, picked it up, and laid it on your palm. It looked even smaller there, a russet spiral in a valley of skin. Perhaps it was dead, but you told yourself that it must simply be sleeping. You thought about the other creature and wondered  ...

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...

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