Transformation

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.

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