“I’m already in the landfill. Gone,” you say.
But I can dig you out.
I’ll hijack the nearest garbage truck on its local route,
I’ll hang my body off the side, breathing in the air.
I’ll know I’m close to finding you when I smell burning hair.

I’ll hop down off my rusty ride—a pea next to mountain—
of human waste, plastic death, chemicals, foul fountains.

I’ll dig with my bare hands, no care for glass, tin can, or needle.
Or paper cut, or diaper rot, or fleas, or ants, or beetles.
I’ll search for what you cannot hide, that so clearly defines you—
for deep inside the oozing filth, your soul radiates around you.

A flicker here of silver, a flash of karat gold,
I’ll listen for your heartbeat while I'm digging holes.
And when I see your face at last, revealed 'neath the decay,
I’ll wrap my hands around your neck and wash the dirt away.

I’ll kiss you through the stinking ****, I’ll pull maggots from your hair,
I’ll sew up all your open cuts, I’ll lift you to a chair.
I’ll hold your hand and hug you—we can stay here if you feel.
You can be my dumpster king, I’ll be your queen of peels.