From the womb, from the living flesh, from the live body?
What does it want? Why won’t it let you alone
Not even dead?
Why, look, you are a handful
Of fat mould breeding corruption, a pinch
Of earth for seed fall—
How does your garden grow?
Hot nights the whole room reeked with the fetid smell
Of chestnut flowers, the live smell, the fertile
Odor of blossoms. She half drowsed. She dreamed
Of long hair fragrant with almonds growing
Out of her dead skull, she dreamed of one
Buried, and out of her womb the corn growing.
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