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.