Poetry
Organic Sadness, Compost-style
by Molly PeacockInstead of beating or pulsing inside
Instead of lubdub, the heat inside
Of things breaking down—it’s rich, it’s loam
Of people decomposing into loam
Of the people you’ve collected over years
Of those who’ve lived inside you over years
All in a melting, merging, mushing heap
All in a flecked brown compost heap
Like music shredding, no shedding, its notes
Like light loosing, no losing, its motes
Like a lush everything into every other thing
Like a paste of waste of every into thing
All they all meant becoming feeling
All umber inside the umbra of feeling