Rot Poem by sherrie tappenden

what would you have me do?
cleave the wood,
split it down the middle.
Axe.
expose the soft life-pulp
to be shrivelled
with fragile capillaries
crisped and crushed
until powder?
Or.
should I lay fire
and burn through sap
and cork?
spitting out
the irreversable changes.
swift,
deadly and final.
releasing now
all the stored,
agonised energy.

but no.
I will drag
the still live, green
branches
to the woods.
lay them
in dark leaf matter
and warm moss beds
to rot
slowly
as decay eats into
the sweet heart wood
and time
turns turgid flesh
to fetid, stinking
slime.