This is about life in the closet. Or, rather, in the compost bin.
(after Georgina Noire)
The corpse in the garden looks at me
although its eyes have already been devoured
long ago by the hornets next door.
It’s too big to place in the compost bin,
yet I believe it can become a great fertiliser.
Animals and plants
and all life on Earth
are made of the same main components,
so it wouldn’t be too far fetched
to grow daffodils out of kidneys,
to feed roses with her heart,
to hydroponically grow basil in her lungs.
Only a few chromosomes make the difference between
humans and lettuce,
so let us be the change we want to see on the soil
but without calling people “pariah”
as we blast some Mariah
in the pottery shed.
If we pulverise the bones
and scatter them over the jasmine bushes,
slugs won’t approach to soak them dry.
They have already colonised the sink anyway,
strictly fed on processed food and processed ideas;
and like in that apocryphal parable
about the man who gave his leftovers to the pigs
and turned into a pig himself
haunting the plumbery system for centuries to come,
if we don’t recycle her,
she will turn into a slug,
into a leech perhaps,
and drain our memories alive.
To stop it from looking at me,
to stop her from looking at me,
I will chop her to pieces with a butter knife
and donate her to Salvation Army:
they’ll know what to do with a sinner.
Originally published on Queer Zine, edited by Dean Atta for Mouthy Poets. 2016