Composted

I itch for repetition, superstition. Bury

the cow horn even if it seems silly. Let’s combine

our rot tonight, grow warm under our surface. Let’s be 

amalgamation, I’ll collect the calcium from the eggshell

if you’ll cover the carbon from the maple leaves. We know 

where magic lives, we’ve heard the tree root whisper. We’re made 

to hold: a kind womb, a sweet placenta. When we’ve 

decomposed ourselves new, let’s give it up again. I want

to be cyclical, I want to be your year after year after year—