In soil’s embrace

From my skin, you rise;
in my embrace, you shall fall.

I awaken to the sound of footsteps --
a march reminiscent of soldiers: weary, heavy, hollowed.
I know this rhythm intimately.
It is the signal that I will be paid what I am owed.
It is the promise that I will have you to savour.

I know you.
I have known you since your first steps upon my body,
your tiny feet pressing into me,
so light I barely felt the bruise.
I remember your laughter on rainy days --
your fingers tearing at my flesh,
mud under your nails,
your joy sinking down into my ear canals like song.
I have tasted your blood when you stumbled,
that copper sweetness spilled in my pores.
Even then, I knew you would come back to me.

Now, at last, you do.

There is a stillness before feeding that I almost mistake for mercy.
Their shovels pierce my skin,
and I open --
slowly, painfully, lovingly.
It hurts, yes,
but I am older than the pain.

Their tears fall into my mouth,
salting the wound,
as they speak of your life
as though it meant something beyond me.
They do not understand:
all names fade in my throat,
and all voices sound the same when they stop breathing.

I am hungry.
I have always been hungry.

You know me.
From my muscles grew your mango tree in the backyard;
your house rests in the hollow between my brows.
You built your world upon my body,
and now I take it back with interest.

Be not afraid, my fattened lamb.
Be not afraid to return what you have taken.

They lower your casket into my open mouth.
The shell is ornate -- expensive --
but I will take my time with it.
White roses follow, soft and fragrant.
An appetizer.

When they are gone,
and the air closes over,
I will swallow, slowly,
until the soil hums again with your echo.

Be not afraid as they sew my lips shut once more --
a crude suture of grief and ritual.
I am unchanged as a whole,
only a little fuller.
Only a little quieter.

The earth gives, and the earth takes away.
Blessed be the earth.

Written by Ayesha Cala
Art by Janara Rose Jacosalem