I am the soil upon which the rest of my life grows. Once depleted forever gone. I am the gardener.
Does it feel good to till one’s own ribcage? Tear through the intercostals? Rip up the transverse obliques. What are you searching for, with this “tilling”?
The diaphragm underneath; the hummus of good clean soil depends on its layers of padding. Till up my body
take away my parka
feel fertile and free for just moments and then die.
Leave me uncovered. Leave me in a pile of leaves. Leave me buried in the earth and reap my bounty.