Their fair share
We turn at the band stand because you say it’s getting dark.
It’s still grey in the sky when we’re one road away from your house,
me walking a little behind you with the dog as we laugh about something from work,
proof to me that we share memories of life,
that events are connected.
I smile at your voice and then a twig from a bush tugs through my hair,
And I see my corpse pulled apart by the foxes, and moss is as much my flesh
as the muscle is.
I see everyone taking their fair share, the birds making party favours of my eyes,
the earth wrapping me warmly for the worms to squirm through one into the other,
a little less of me
each time their tender pink bodies double back on themselves.
I see the burning light of whatever part of me is able to see this, laughing now
with you,
unmeshed from my body and bounding across the ground into some other thing
born blind in its burrow.
As we turn round the last road, your dog scurries forward in excitement for home.
Llewynn Brown is a writer living by the sea in Cornwall, England. They write a large amount of personal experiences given an artistic tinge, or led off completely into fantasy.
