(Before she died)

She must have made a pact with the Sun
And the heat, the heat, the heat,
The sun bubbles-up her skin
Tapping her veins
Shriveled

(Earth’s season care nothing for the dead)

We cross over hissing creaks
Shaped like slender snakes
Stepping onto tall banks
Where hands grab at my ankles

Broken out through the soil
Some flashing wedding rings
The clouds reflect the mountains ahead
She stinks of slaughtered pigs wrapped in shit

(Seven months, seven months, seven months)

Zachary Bush