I am already dead. Already, I am dead.

I am gone. Already, I am gone.

    You are reading this when I am gone.
    Dis. Integrate.
    Already I am earth     ash     leaf     caterpillar,

    the tomato between your teeth.
    Already I am ink on the page the bottom

    of your boot tepid water from a sun

    soaked tap, wood.
    Dis. Integrate.
    Already I am dust mote that cannot fit

    inside itself, small parts flung out and

    around and under, blood shiver, glass shard,

    prism throwing light at the yellow kitchen walls.
    Already I am dug down with a sign skewered

    above me in the soft dirt my children dug out

    earlier: this is the grave where I lay, where I

    lie, where I am folded inside a pillow case.

    I am my own terrier tucked in, dead from

    the green syringe the vet brought to our house

    at eleven am. My arm shaved.

    Anaesthetic put in. I am the dream of dirt

    and bone. I am put down. I am put under.

    I am touching root systems, gravel, earthworm.
    I am carried by me and my three year old

    who cradles my head while I take

    the weight of my body.

    My eyes refuse to close.

    My tongue keeps pushing out

    between the loose points of my teeth.
    Dis. Integrate.
I am gone. Already, I am gone.