I buried my body in the bog.
Let pitcher plants take my lungs,
my voice a nectar chewing flies.
Dimpled berries fall from my eyelids,
catch their husks on my muskrat flesh.
Feet carve an emptiness
in the tamarack needles.
I never could resist.
My weight--too much for
this moss-coated Earth.
I sink in between the sulfur and sedge,
the ugly mire fills the cracks in me.
The smell of decay is a reflex.
Ashely Adams is an MFA candidate in nonfiction at the University of South Florida. Her work has appeared in journals such as Heavy Feather Review, Fourth River, Permafrost, OCCULUM, Luna Luna Magazine, and Paper Darts. Ask her about bird opinions on twitter: @goosegloriosa