// sown 

unzipped in the back where the digits of my spine dot like spaces between words. trodden into rows,  dirt stuffed under tongue, some between the crannies of my ribs. throat clogged—they dig me face down so that the corners of my armpits consecrate the ground like temples for the dead. dressed in  the lace of palm on mouth, breast, hips: any skin that withdraws when touched. 

in the field: ferns rolled out over granular bits of dust, humidity perfumed with blades of frost. what  feels like an anthill flattened under my wrists. can’t seem to move them, they’re too heavy. grunts in  the background like a metronome over midnight sonata, gravelly. intestines knotted. knuckles split. i  didn’t know why they’re shoveling so much. 

// harvested 

every inhale a gasp of earth and suffocated litter. white lines crawling by my ears, tingle of worm  tracing my palm lines. cinnamon girl planted beside me saying close your eyes it’ll be easier. her toes  have already taken root to the soil beside the weeds. want to close my eyes but can’t. she says that’s  normal it takes some getting used to. plus, it doesn’t matter because everything is dark anyway. like  the pile of stuffed animals that i hid away because i was getting too old. i think i was twelve. 

sudden light so fast i shut my eyes: they’re digging me back up again. hardened fingers yanking my  hair. ouch. voice doesn’t work—just wind whistling out of my lungs. extracted like how a child  collects pebbles by the shore, plucked and cleaned in laps of frigid water. come and gone. hauled into  a wheelbarrow, rough against my buttocks, next to peeling radishes and bruised apples. 

a cashmere sweater is not what they usually wear to do things like this. 

// cooked 

the smell of brandy and olive oil and smoke. crash of pans. popcorn ceilings stained gray and soaked  with water. this place has been used before, foretelling a good meal. trying to blink but the bite of  onions nearby makes my eyes puddle with tears. everything blurry but i can still make out the  shadows hovering over me. close shapes. a hand, my throat. 

starfished on the dining table because the kitchen island was too small. rinsed with salt water and  they don’t notice it leaks into my eardrums so i hear the sound of the waves breaking. skimmed with a filleting knife to take off all the unnecessary parts, the tip of it prodding my belly button to flip me  inside out. embarrassed they can see all the tendons taut and red but they don’t seem to care.  

mouth pulled open so they can carve out the teeth and stick a handful of thyme inside. draped in the  best honey barbecue sauce to be roasted above the fire spit; the flame is not as hot as some things.  eyes scooped out with a spoon, later marbleized in resin and displayed in a glass pyramid. served on  a golden platter, all glossy on the outside. eaten with slices of bread and leftovers from the week  before. 

they didn’t even leave the bones behind.