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Sean Campbell
The Body Farm
Toss this carcass in Knoxville, per my will.
When I die leave me drying on sprinkled grass,
an unashamed odor in a humid season:
keep me in the sun
exposed, unfurling like meat—
there was little of me in it,
and nothing left for me after.
Per my will hand me to science, find me
a place on the body farm, where they’ll time
the remains, watching the fingers unzip.
<< Back to Issue 14, 2010 |
