When I die don’t box me up like cold spaghetti to be left in the refrigerator forgotten, or leave me in the hands of a doctor or mortician, a priest, or whichever abandoned friend arrives to grieve me; feed me to the earth piece by piece into careful holes dug by an old man with fingers like fat carrots; the shade of his sunhat and his white beard yielding small plots of land for my liver and lungs, skin planted and hung across lattice, my meat heart like a sweetpotato in the soil— all nurtured by the weather, the junebugs and bees, his dirty hands and green thumb, until he may harvest the fruit of my organs and gorge himself like a child eating slices of cantaloupe on a summer’s day.
Submitted December 21, 2017 at 05:25PM by wakeupdrakesucks http://ift.tt/2BfIgbo OCPoetry
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