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The Poet's First Burial The old boy choked to death on a lamb bone left on the kitchen table from supper. We kids were in bed, father was away and mother had drifted off on the couch after drinking a bottle of cooking wine. Before school the next morning, we buried the corpse in the compost pile behind the cucumbers in the garden. I still remember how his tongue popped out when we dropped him in the hole. "Look, he's trying to lick dew from the soil," I said to my brother, who swatted my ass hard with a shovel. "Donít be such a pussy," he warned. "And show some respect for the dead."