The vulture is a messenger, revered
for its ability to cross between worlds .
It's like listening to two gods argue
about death, a bad recipe with good
ingredients won't impress fancy friends
or celebrities. Hungry friends, vultures,
messengers, or mushrooms might appreciate
the way you lay there, imperceptibly
breathing. The creak of a wagon axle
in your ribcage. Pigeons will visit, and
will leave you with soreness in your
abdomen. Otherwise, it's like they were
never there, like there were never two gods,
like there were shreds of the old life, frayed
and obsolete, clinging to unbroken
shells on your bedroom floor. It's not far, not
all the way to the ocean, the place where
I'm scattering these ashes, the ones that
I've been carrying with me all these years.
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