“Maybe if I can allow Death to eat with me, in the dirt, sharing my beans and bread with soil-dampened fingers, if I can allow her into my garden, to sit with me squarely and matter-of-factly on a blue bench, if I can climb into her dark womb and allow her to contract me out into the bracing air of life—

Maybe then I will be brave enough to stay sane,
and by sane, I mean alive, and by alive, I mean in procreative communion with Death.”