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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."