Bronwyn Valentine


You decomposer ____You are dying because you are so alive ____I clump your damp earth
by fistfuls__ I exalt your guts and lowlands __your territories overrun with horses

I fill up your hollows__make abounding sockets__Mosses and lichens __detritus and duff
There is so much to take __enough for us both and more __Darling fatass __what is yours is yours

Scientists will trumpet your abundant insides__ their tools right in the thick of you ___I am jealous
I am jealous of every person walking behind you ___everyone__ every one of them you

Sometimes I marry you and have your children ___We are a family __a common wilderness
We build our ribcage ourselves__But maybe not ___Maybe I just want to fuck you ___O my body

maybe we’re just waiting for the end__ Think of the end __We’ll braid our dead hair
We’ll unfence the fenced-in places ___We’ll offer the reclamation __ALLELUIA





Archaeologist, you will not know my name
in the next millennium. You will not understand ocean,
or how a person is also an ocean. You will assume person,
teeming and full, but I am not a person, not really.
I am trying to be an emptiness.
Archaeologist, every inside wants out.

There will be no body, no bones or teeth.
You will only exhume foundations,
the midden of my binge and purge: cowries, cockleshells,
hag stones and sea glass, my dead grandmother’s hair.
You will call it a ritual, and I do not disagree.
You, archaeologist, will marvel at the preservation
of this late American vomitorium architecture.
How magnificent the hoard, how pristine the artifacts,
how like a queen.

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