and there you go again –
all-swollen, your face is somber and a
mouth that tastes of iron. you offer
no response, your blood-stained shirt
offers an insight –
april mixes monsoon with rage.
redden earth, fertilized with your blood
needs no amending, no peat moss or
feeding of fertilizer, it’s ripe for seeding,
and instead you dig a shallow grave and
soundly sleep in it.
do you think of death as a new blossoming,
or do you think of yourself as tulip bulb?
