Rite of Spring
by feldman
For the hundredth time, Stark darts out and presses his face to the dirt like the Pope on a tarmac. For the first time, he likes what he tastes. "Here! Yes! Here, right now!"
She is unconscious and curled up like a seed when they plant her in the loam, black and spongy as devil's food cake. They bury her down past her eyebrows.
Within an arn, her skull unfurls
into a cluster of leaves. Stark rocks on his knees, stroking her outer leaves
and crying into his sleeves. He'll make sure none of them peeks into her unguarded
head.