It croaks as it’s dying,
body sunken,
when it wriggles,
it jiggles,
and rolls its side in upon itself
like a three day drunk

On the sun bleached verandah
it whispers a stain of emeralds,
trickling upward, in bursts
while cremated flesh
bleeds into floor

For Toby to lick,
then spit out with disgust
his tongue turning,
writhing,
trying to escape the filth

It seems to burn,

perhaps I will burn too,
and this face,
without trace,
though plasticine cased,
will bleed into humanities soup.

 

What happens to a body can often surprise and horrify us, perhaps make us question our own capacity to keep our atoms in one place.