【Written by Jill Schuck】

An imitation poem of Mark Doty.
 
He does not ride a silver horse
but grimy swells of Earth, his mucus
figure-eights, circling the magnolias.
And he feeds. No, not feeds—
 
he devours parasitically,
hooking crowned mouth onto rotted
cheek. Meat past sell-by dates.
He is not selective.
 
Through his pulled-taffy belly slips the animal kingdom:
 
oak steak of deer, filet of finch,
tenderloins of turkey and shish kebob of squirrel.
I could mash him with my trowel-scythe.
 
But you can’t kill Death.
 
We’ll meet again, maggot and man
in the mud. One consuming, one spoiling,
brandy on his lips.
 
I hear it pairs nicely with flesh.