Under the moon, I shovel soil
and sand with my hands. I claw.
I consume with an arch in my back.
I swallow the ground that buried you
until the pine of your coffin sighs fresh
air. In the night, my hands seep through
wood and find your rib cage. I pull. Crack.
I swallow your ribs whole. I feel the machinery
that needled chemicals into you. I melt it
with the heat of my breath.
featured in Sorin Oak Review
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