decay does not frighten me

it is the stopping parts

of death that incite

restless dread rot and visual degradation

move

with life

bones carrying on without soul to move them

where goes the voice

the song

of the skeletal bird

lying hollow

in spring dirt

What talons will grasp and scrape

for sustenance

in its stead

Halted and still

I could not focus

on her body

always imagining

the rise

and fall

of her chest

but I watch

with eyes

streaming

as the box

that contains

her physical evidence of continuation

is

lowered

and covered with dirt and green grass

Mother I think you

would have preferred

to decay

like a broken sparrow

in my flowerbed