• Samantha Watson

A Field in Early Spring

As I lie here

tangled amid thistle and weeds,

your still form sprawled next to mine,

I wonder--

when will they find us?

Before or after

the dark loam below swallows us whole?

Already the cattle have taken notice,

snorting and stamping from afar

before their dull, vapid gazes forsake us.

Already clusters of white-capped mushrooms

burst forth from our chests,

budding from our rot.

So how long?

Before or after

the thaw frees our stiffened limbs from frozen bindings?

Already the insects in their teeming millions

wriggle and writhe,

Feasting beneath our flesh.

Already the buzzards have staked their claim,

plucked out our eyes

and dug their bald heads between our ribs.

How long must we fester here

awaiting the fox to steal our bones,

wrenching us apart?

How long must we linger here

in this blighted in-between,

forgotten to all but the earth?

How long until I’m home with you?

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