Thursday, April 07, 2011

The Art of Forgetting

Well, fuck knows. I think I need a holiday.

I loved the prompt, and I'd like to work more on this at some point, but for now I'm abandoning it to try and work on some of the other things that were spinning round my head all night.

The art of forgetting

It’s not just a question of burying the bodies
with your own bare hands, in clay-thick soil.

You must rake until your fingernails are bloody
then tamp the earth, turn the grave invisible.

Flatten it perfect. Excellent. Now, sow it with doubt.
Scatter questions, be awkward, give an unexpected


When shoots appear, lick them, like a bitch
cleans her puppies. You’re a dog now. Yes,

Shape-shifting is essential. Anyway, which
stage we at? Growth. Well, this is the best

part, the waiting, and also the hardest bit. Sit.
For years. Then a few more. Don’t do, just let

The stalks turn to stems, branch and then stick
close by the leaves, watch them thicken. Undress

from your dog suit, be ready with flesh, to split
in two, become a parasol, a raincloud, a less

realistic scarecrow than the last time. Be sure to shit
in the right place, spill plenty blood-and-bone, lest

the plant be starved. You’re a gardener, rich
with superstition, lost in prayer. Rest.

Sleep all you can.

Next, breathe in and summon the bees.
Some will warn you against it, but hold fast, stay loyal

to your calling. Stings heal. Let them come, let them feast
share the blossom, the perfect, worm-riddled fruit of your whole life’s toil.

The grave you dug was your own.
The fruit you ate was your own flesh and blood.


Erobintica said...

holy crap Nikki - this is awesome!

Nikki Magennis said...

Oh, thanks robin! Pretty rough but i liked the overall idea.