What you don’t know
is that death feels
like your body in an abandoned car,
field left, weeds, wild wheat
in the wheel well, paint slips off
in the hands of each autumn storm.
Your form is not the end
as the children of the dirt
pull at the new green stems,
chew and break, mandible sting
and teeth, razor fine picks
inch by inch at the jean’s thread.
You are a form of staying.
Learning the feeling of bloat,
the organs as they run flaccid
as the swarm moves off soft
feed, the beetle district opens
and you learn the names
of each new generation,
the names of the spiders,
the wasps, the snakes that
take them in jaws to the same
spot of sacred ground where
you are renamed as Dissolve.
C.L. Liedekev is a writer/propagandist who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, Open Skies Quarterly, River Heron Review, and Vita Brevis. His real goal is to make the great Hoboken poet/exterminator Jack Wiler proud. So far, so good.
Latest posts by C L Liedekev (see all)
- After The Season - December 1, 2021
- The Unmoving Journey - December 1, 2021