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.