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Carrion
Spliced in half,
natures morsel,
I’m wrapped in butcher paper
spoiling in the daystar.
flies stitch hymns
into my seams,
their silver exoskeletons
humming over what’s been
left unnamed.
the sun does
not forgive,
it only
leans closer,
a slow, deliberate witness.
I was whole once—
veins singing under skin,
pulse arguing
with time—
warm and beating—
but now I soften
into silence,
a quiet surrender
of edges,
a sweetness
turning
strange.
Jane Mansfield is an American writer fairly recently living in Germany with her husband. Writing under the nickname Jane, inspired by her middle name, she explores love through the language of landscapes and ordinary moments. Her lyrical poetry and prose examines the depths of emotions, longing, intimacy and its quiet dialogue people and the natural world. She writes stories that linger in spaces between memory, desire and wonder.
When she isn’t writing, she can often be found wandering outdoors collecting small details that becomes stories. A stay-at-home mother of two, she also shares her work on Substack through @Where Jane Goes.