Anna explains that corpses churn out poison:
freon, mercury, lead, decades of digested
pesticides — enough to kill you! She laughs
between breaths — we blow life into
crinkled, gold balloons. They should spell
BRIDE — but the E won’t inflate, so she strings up
the unfinished BRID against the dark
hotel room walls. There’s this mushroom suit,
she says. They dress you head-to-toe:
It’s all about the spores — the fungi. They eat
everything: hair, nails, teeth, bones — even
the pesticides. She says when you’re gone,
the soil is safe. You could grow corn in it, maybe,
or bell peppers. You could eat them. I pour
champagne into plastic cups that will outlive
us all. I always thought I’d be reborn
as a tree — or maybe an alley
cat — the kind that rolls in dust, dozes
in patches of sun. But I like bell peppers
and corn, too. Anna raises her glass for a toast:
‘til death, I say — to soil. We swallow.
Max Orr teaches high school English in Columbus, Ohio. He is a hiker and a cat lover as well as the winner of the 2019 William Redding Memorial Poetry Contest. His work has appeared in Pudding Magazine, The Fourth River, Ghost City Review, and Maudlin House.