Sunday, April 11, 2021

napwrimo day no. 11

 the fly 

 

No matter where you go, its all shit 

and rot. In the field, they dont find the 

dead calves for days. Fruit grows soft  

 

on the vine, and Im here for it--

every hole that needs filling, every mouth 

slack open and eyes glazed over 

 

with death. The robin fell from the nest 

and already the insects were inside its 

feathered body, breaking it down into earth. 


Hard to tell what is living, already dying.

The ticker winding down to the final hour.

Muscle grown loose around bones, skin sag. 

 

and broken teeth.  How to know the difference 

between the already and the almost, 

not yet. Sometimes impossible. Especially 


when god keeps lining up the bodies so lifelike. 

Yesterday, the little girl in the field 

who buried the bird, so carefully 


with her rhyme but startled at my crawl up her leg. 

Already her insides grown black with char.