Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/46

 From the womb, from the living flesh, from the live body? What does it want? Why won’t it let you alone Not even dead? Why, look, you are a handful Of fat mould breeding corruption, a pinch Of earth for seed fall— How does your garden grow?

Hot nights the whole room reeked with the fetid smell Of chestnut flowers, the live smell, the fertile Odor of blossoms. She half drowsed. She dreamed Of long hair fragrant with almonds growing Out of her dead skull, she dreamed of one Buried, and out of her womb the corn growing.