08/06

compost room

making good on the promise,
i took soft handfuls & deposited them
behind the door of the old nursery.
you & me, we used to be blood.
used you open our veins like window blinds.
now, emptying the fridge of all its organic.
do you remember eating celery 
on the porch in winter? or cutting
a tomato down the forehead?
we had to regrow in the most urgent way.
all the ankle. all the rake.
throwing in shoes & the garden hose.
fingernails & fresh egg shells.
a whisk. a worm farm. an old photograph.
watching the warmth go to work.
it's not a place to walk through.
open the door just a crack. smell deep
& aching. how a mushroom becomes 
a boy before he is gone. all kinds 
of faces in the pile. peering from behind
a banana peel, a little neighbor girl.
under a baseball cap, a stray fox
who used to eat melon from my hand.
i have never had a green thumb.
instead i talk to my potted plants 
& tell them about each of the rooms
in my house. bed. kitchen. basement.
compost. crawl space. the compost room
spreads. i find its fresh death
in my closet. shut the door & pretend
everything is alright. then i wake up
& find the grit & the dirt reaching
beneath the bed. i suppose i am ready to be 
repurposed. decide to sleep. give it
what it wants. a school of bones.
the pink of me. the blue. the red.
gentle & patient. letting the rot get to work.
have you ever been dismantled 
like a glass of sand? pouring out.
roots weaving. light from the window 
sticking to my face. open the door.
come with me. 

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