Eve Gore

Apples begin to rot as soon as they drop from the tree,

So you laid down with them when we lost our way.

You said you were sacrificing yourself to Hel,

That your bones were already outside of yourself, 

That only she would understand your cold grey skin.  

 

It scared me how you smiled as you bloated.

How all the people you had hoped would see you die

Came only when you had turned cold.

Crawling through dirt, scavengers, fungi,

Your hands lay upright to welcome them inside. 

 

I didn’t know how many days I had been there,

which stage of decay we said goodbye,

Or when the putrid odour left my clothes.

I regret not brushing your eyelids closed, 

If only we had not lost the path—