After Manahil Bandukwala’s “Petrify”

Your body did not decompose into dust but began a slow petrification.
There was no stench of rot, no flies birthed in your skin, only a rough texture forming.

        The rough texture forming across your skin dried you out, grating my flesh
        every time I tried to stir you, to bring color back to the veins that disappeared.

Your veins disappeared and were replaced with creeping ivy, irritating me further
as you were soon consumed by the plant, rooting you to your deathbed.

        Your deathbed likewise began to harden, the sheets gradually tearing away
        as moss and mushrooms formed new pillows and comforters for you.

For you, your bedroom became a sculpture garden, the window knocked out so
visitors would be free to come in and admire the sight of the statue girl. 

        The statue girl who many claimed was petrified because she drew ire from
        a gorgon, or that she never truly lived and was merely a sculptor’s dream.

A sculptor might dream of a girl who could never die, and they would admire how
your body did not decompose into dust but began a slow petrification.

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash