Under (v. 4)
The other day I fell off the roof and died,
but the washing machine still tumbles change
and wine stains. Mother folds sheets
and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep,
I keep tally of the wriggling worms.
My grandfather lies beside me.
Cold bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree,
worm-infested. Now they feast on me.
Mother makes dinner, stirs her tea.
I tug the roots of risen thyme
and remember to forget how to breathe.