The vultures come first, burying their smooth heads to feast, untidy and greedy, until the belly is picked clean and hollow. The stiffness of rigor quickly passes; the tongue lolls back. Soon enough the maggots arrive, and then in a flurry beetles, worms, and weevils of all kinds, until the flesh is a writhing, rolling turmoil. It splits, sags, droops; the white of bone begins to shine. Finally, the flesh cleared away, plants emerge from the hollows, shoots peeking up through the rib slats and eye sockets, reaching for the sun.
The in-breath undoes it all, pulls the body back together, and consciousness returns to the front brain. Just practice today. A dress rehearsal. But maybe tomorrow, or the next day.
Soon enough, anyhow.