Compost

Compost

I threw you, sprouting, in the trash.
I could not be bothered to clean
Out the bucket we used for compost;
To spare you from the profane,
suffocating in a bag, buried and forgotten,
After all you'd been through.
Plucked from the earth,
Packed and shipped,
Picked from a heap of yams,
Forgotten on my shelf until you
Burst with the future
In your thin fingers, reaching,
Touching the sun, releasing
Your slow exhale. I can still hear you
choking on the cellophane with your
final breaths. I try
to make out your last words
but I cannot.