and soon I will replace you

 

and soon I will replace you

 

The funeral of us was too quick.

 

They preserved your body
as I wandered the midnight earth.
Vodka, lemon juice, brine.
My room smelled like you for days.

 

It took me one month to return
one more to dig.

 

I finally removed the leaves.
Peeled back decayed oak,
raked maple,
plucked pine needles
from your chest.
Roots and mycelium brushed to oblivion.

 

You were this autumn husk to dissect
and a pile of unraveled tapes
of the oldest science.

 

I opened your sternum like a book I knew.
All heat was gone.

 

A burst of flies came forth
from eggs I had planted in you
when we were just starting.

 

I have taken them back.
I have removed their wings,
pinned their bodies
straight through the heart
into black felt.
I have pierced them.
Now everything is aligned, but
I cannot fill.
Cannot believe anymore.

 

The shadowbox of your personality
was empty from the start.

 

How funny that the dead can still hurt me.

 
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