It presses its thumb into the soft places of the body, into the back of the neck, the hollow of the knee, and the flesh against the heart. Though feral, Theros held a sickle in her hand. She is our mother. God bless the Gatorland. A blessed angel came from the trees and spoke to me, saying this was the tribe of the blessed, and gave upon me an orange. Take this and eat, for it is my Flesh, given and shed for you, and said, No man shall see me and live, but I am no man. I am man-unbound, man-undone. At my feet lays the peel, undone. God bless the Gatorland. The land works slowly, like an ouroboros digesting itself. Nothing is held apart for long. The body dissolves into the loam and estuary, the root and the limestone alike. To live is to agree to be taken, eventually, by the falcons circling overhead, by the furious storm assembling beyond the event-horizon. To be pulled apart and redistributed in the most extravagant of ways. God bless the Gatorland. 39
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