POEM: Recyclable Me

In death, I'm a recyclable,
my gut biome will gnaw its way
out of me like Ripley's Alien -
if on a microscopic scale.

Agents of the Destroyer will
turn my tissues into food bits
to feed some other animal.
Yes, I am inescapably 
animal - inescapably 
in transformation from living
to not...

This may seem morose, but is it?
He who can imagine a dog
cracking open his bones to eat
away all the marrow --
without an inner cringe, or wince --
is a person who knows freedom.

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