Our fifth for dinner sits out in the dirt,
holds its voracious mouth up to receive
within the keeping of its dalek skirt
our skin and core and stone and rind and leaf
and laughter and the pip: all table traffic,
lawn and garden clippings, daily news.
There is vast acreage within this plastic
hem where dalek innards enjoy tardis views,
cook slow and, pitchfork-turned, digest
to next to nothing, crumbling loam that’s dug
back into beds. Descendants of the dead
arise and our new growth is shadow tagged
and wrestled by tomato vines, the spawn
of stuff should be done with— still reborn.
1 August 2017