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The Carrion Tree
–For Burns
Hanging from its branches,
The tree bears them like glorious fruits—
Laden with corpses rotting: old and new.
Their eyes glazed over, forever spewing agony—
All in various stages of decay;
Dripping blood from their slick fur.
It must have been their eyes, black like buttons,
That drew you in. The whole forest closed in around you—
But, in the end, it was a voice
That brought you back to the carrion tree.
Slowly, you released the corpses one by one
And arranged them into a circle.
Now they could dissolve into the earth
Like they were supposed to.
Longing to be with them, you rid yourself of your clothes
And lay down—naked as the day you were born—
In the centre of your new companions.
You would dissolve with them
To gratefully give your body back to the earth;
While, above you—through the tracery of branches—
The sky darkened and the air grew colder.
Still, it didn't occur to you to move.
This was the right place:
This was where you had wanted to be—
Surrounded by the fragility of death
And at peace with the elements.
Copyright ©
Amelie Ison
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