Down by the creek...

DEAD OF SUMMER


My feet in clay,
mud. Cool, wet
squeaking between my toes
sliding up
around my ankles
till I settle in the earth.
Terribly welcome,
relief from damp humid swelter
of late August
when life is sun and fire and
melted ice cubes long gone
in too-warm tea. Clay’s firm, it supports me
but gives like the once-living.
Is this what dead feels like? Cold,
malleable flesh, waiting for
the grave? I pull one foot from its
suctiony hold.
Step forward…
and slide green-grey toes
into the earth.
It squishes around me
like the animated dead,
pulling me into the grave.