If you’ve read me for more than a season, then you already know that my springs tend to be full of T.S. Eliot and The Waste Land. Who can resist inspiration like: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”
“A Stinker of a Time”
I learned the trade from Primavera the Fisher.
“Spring can’t stand botched up winter jobs,” Primavera said, the first morning she took me to the docks. “She always floats their mistakes to the surface. It’s a stinker of a time for us, even when their rot comes carrying gifts.”
Before I could ask what she meant, Primavera speared a severed hand that had been bobbing for sunlight. Its pinky finger wore a huge ruby ring.
“They’ll never be good at winter jobs, if they can’t keep a corpse from blooming in spring.”
In winter, it’s best to bury or burn.
photo by Fatima Fakier Deria