Nepenthes

 

What am I made of, sitting here like this:

half underwater, alight,

a yellow, salted, fleshy thing–tenderized?

 

Something more;

something like the breath I took when I sat on that roof,

a breath that already-decayed parts of me can’t now assimilate.

 

Two sources told me–

in two separate years–

that I am going to age well.

 

And from them I must hide the asphyxiated parts.

And the parts that remain have no purpose other than

to reawaken what has already died.

 

 

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