By | 1 February 2016

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.

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