The Forest Dweller’s Diary

9. A Death

We placed her in the clay
Far from the riverbank
Among the drooping leaves
Bent inward towards the forest’s bowels
And covered her with stones polished by the passing current
And dried flowers that crumbled over her husk.

When I die I want to be buried
Far from the river
And laid in the sandy ground.
I want to be roasted over hot coals
To suck out all the moistness
So that I remain dry, rigid, dead.

I want to be cured,
Hardened to leather
Stuffed with sulfur
Not a breeder worms and maggots
For abundance is worse that death

Here in the forest’s center
You can’t feel your own heart beat.
You have no pulse that can be called your own
And your lungs are filled with disease.

The towns are worse
They plague the valley
They rut and breed
Civilization is a death upon a death
A stuffing of senses
Until there’s only a mindless hiss

Alex Sager

If you've any comments on this poem, Alex Sager would be pleased to hear from you.