Ballad Of The Plastic Poem by Stefanie Fontker

Lain across a dirt hill,
Almost like a slab of meat.
I miss seeing you preach,
The first dead slave-disciple.

We cannot bury you,
For this is the prerogative
Of the once human, worry not
Decomposition will not occur.
You were never named flesh.

I will leave these words,
In a note atop your desert grave.
I will remember you, forever
And always, zipped up and enclosed

Within the envelope of my mind.