Death, You Meant
There are certainties: The latent seeds
revealed in the halved apple.
Worm, you meant. You saw the point
of entry. You dismissed the imperfections,
the bruise, the tiny portal, convinced the yield
would still be sweet. The sleeping worms
awakened beneath the overturned stone.
Worms, you meant. Startled by their pink
and wriggle, you flinched. Once you rescued
them from puddles to wind around
your chubby fingers. Remember when you
hoped? The seethe of maggots
in the eye socket of the dead squirrel.
Babies, you meant. Death, you meant.
The stench and heft of the corpse
didn’t bother you at all as you flung
it into the woods. You should’ve covered
the body with leaves. You should’ve attempted
a decent burial. You shouldn’t pick up
dead things by the tail. You should always
always dig a hole. Right now, your white cat licks
the bottom of his pristine feet. You will never have
to clean yourself with your mouth. Still,
you are an animal; you’ve sucked blood
instinctively from paper cuts and cooled wounds
with your tongue. Once, you knew how to seal
a man shut and break him open with just
eyes and lips, hands and pelvis. What happened
to that woman who never had time to mourn?