Dry and cold autumn
As the necropsy table stares
I like the thickness
Of the strands of your hair

Two goats in the storm
Carrying me in his arms
Bringing me to the river
I keep looking at the stars

They covered my face
I felt my belly burn
Goats eating my bowels?
Or is it just concern?

Heart meter or crickets?
Instruments or teeth?
Ritual or surgery?
What am I doing here?

They took me by at the
Necropsy room stairs
I like the way you look at me
Now that you are dead