Waiting for puree with a doll in hand.
The septic lowlands
The gentle cooing of birds as the drinking water is turned to sewage
Each gnawing at the ground picking at maggots and grubs
Raids come, dropping their dying off by the pool
Wafting like an outhouse, but in war it all smells like decomposition.
Two weeks notice, pipes bursting above the nursery, late-stage non-aggressive dementia. (The kind that keeps you in limbo, a mere inconvenience to your kids and grandchildren.)
Soil your britches, feeble bodied or not, the waste still causes sores.








