Rest
by Savannah Gale
Sunlight— you spy— I see you
peeking through branches, ducking
against dogwood leaves. But I know
your departure is imminent, and I have
left no curtains drawn, so here you are welcome
to feast on my weary bones.
May the dying tendrils of sun
begin my decomposition. May the
cotton of my sheets twine around
my calves, my hips, and all of my wasted
limbs, and drag this body down into
the soft root systems underneath.
Quilted flowers, how I long to join
your ranks. I give way to the worms
of my brain who may roam
wildly and dissolve my body to
fertilizer; who may soak me deeper
into the fuschia fields below.
Dusk— my deliverer— paint my body
azure, forget me not, and allow my petals
to quietly retire. For my fragile stems
have grown haggard, and one simple night
of rest
is all that I desire.