Compost

There is magic in decay.

A dance to be done

For the rotting, the maggot strewn

Piles of flesh which pile

Upon the dung-ridden earth

And the damp that gathers

And rusts and defiles.

There is a bit of this

In even the most zoetic soul — 

The dancing child’s arms

Flailing to an old ska song

Conduct the day-old flies

Away to whatever rank

Native is closest. Just today

I was walking along the river

With my daughter in my backpack

And I opened my email

On my phone and Duffie

Had sent me a poem

Called “Compost.” I read it

To my little girl and started

To explain before I was three

Words in Selma started

Yelling, Daddy, Daddy, snake!

In the path was a snake,

Belly up and still nerve-twitching

The ghost of some passing

Bicycle or horse. Pretty, Selma said.

Yes, I said. And underneath my yes

Another yes, the yes to my body,

Just beginning to show signs

Of slack, and another, my grasping

In the dark for affirming flesh

That in turn says yes, yes

Let’s rot together but not until

We’ve drained what sap

Is left in these trees.

And I wake in the morning

And think of the coroner

Calling to ask what color

My father’s eyes were,

And I asked, Why? Why can’t

You just look — and the coroner,

Matter-of-factly says, Decay.

Do you want some eggs, my love?

I have a new way of preparing them.

And look, look outside, I think this weather

Has the chance of holding.