There is dirt in my veins

It isn't suicide, she said,

If it happens in the summer.

In the summer, if you die, you'll find,

That you end up back at the beginning

Of time, the great Dreaming,

Ready to start all over again.

It's the heat that does it.

Should I kill myself then?

I ask, limp in my own sweat,

Not for my words, she says,

Not for the glaring blue or

The cracking of dry, drying earth. 

Maybe for yourself, I dunno.

Please stop asking me this, she says.

Okay, I said, and watched as

My arms turned to water

And hers turned to dirt and when,

Eventually, we made mud again

The sun grew too hot and baked us,

Forever locked into place.