Compost

A dying person or thing is still alive. That is the main thing about it; the dying is second. Perhaps even the dead are alive although that is another question, prone to projection. The dead are like us, and unlike. Analogies have problems. 

Metaphors are violent, one part always subsumed. What are we left but litany? How are we to draw any line, any word? I am an unwilling surgeon and also the body on the table. The blood is my blood.
 

The blood is thick with plastics, cholesterol, false estrogen. I make teas from plants that do not manage to amend me. Still, I like the plants. I could compost my blood or tincture it to drink in solidarity with the garden. 

Survival is a continuity with the dead. No contradiction. Even in the winter, the wrenching

cold holds seeds.