“Truth is what the body tells when it no longer fears being seen.” - Poet
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the deer died with her eyes open which means she watched herself become field something permeable I found her on the third day of autumn— found autumn wearing her decaying hide like a hand-me-down dress the flies had already written their poems in the metaphors of her throat: small black punctuation, multiplying I wanted to close her eyes but my hands passed through what I once believed was boundary later the biologist told me decomposition is just the body finally telling the truth about how many selves were always inside you waiting to be released— even the child who never grew old enough to be revision now when I say I, I mean the forty trillion bacteria who call this dirt-body home I mean the deer the flies I mean the light that passed through her and landed here in this poem which is just another way of being eaten which is just another word for love by the porous self
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