They want my body youngthinpretty,
want it perfect & unchanging as a glass
fresh out the soapy water, polished dry.
But the youngthinpretty dies with all the rest,
goes perfect & unchanging into a coffin,
into the soil, straight down a detritivore's maw.
The things I want include my body fat & happy,
nectarine split open in my jaw, juice down
a double chin, with laughter lines cut deep.
One day, yes, we'll rot beneath the earth,
and mould will sprout so vivid in my chest.
A thousand mycelial strands to sing a life not mine.
(So I may as well eat the damn chocolate
while my body is still here.)
Title taken from the Flesh World newsletter's sign-off.
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