Outside things are beginning to end. This landscape slit down its belly like a
mackerel, ready to be devoured.
Why this relationship of predator and prey?
And why, of all things, is it the host we hunger for?
The earth beneath our feet has never looked so
appetizing. We shovel it down our gullets in heaping handfuls
It is rich on the tongue and it weighs us down
The greenery does not grow quick enough for this ritual to be anything other than
catastrophic. The grit between your teeth as you take the action of erosion
In these plague-times we ache and retch and cry out in anguis
Keening for all the footprints lost to the bloodwarm soil
This thirst is never-ending
Is nothing here salvageable? Nothing at all?
It doesn’t have to be sacred to be worthy – I think. I think we could make a home here
If the earth will have us
Don’t raze us, please. Please, don’t salt the ground we stand on.
While there is still ground to stand on
We can still grow: thyme, basil, and parsley