by Kimberly Casey 

I found your body while barefoot in the marsh,
tossed like a candy wrapper on the ground
crumpled and worn from rainwater dripping.
I scooped you up like beach sand in my palms
and pressed you to my ear, listening to the
absence of air in your chest, the hollow loss
of something not yet understood
Your shoulders were still bleeding
the brightest red of sunset
catching the kindling of your bones.
Tonight I will take you home
crack your chest plate with precision
and explore the inside of your shell myself,
picking tiny diamonds from your bloodstream
using needles like chopsticks
cleaning your caverns of all things unnatural
Then stitch you up, create a nest in the ground
grind a gravestone from granite –
I’ll never tell them where you are buried,
upside down under tree roots,
flying weightlessly home.