The “you” here seems to be the earth itself—or some vast, impersonal force of nature. Ridge speaks to it as both a birthplace and a burial ground, a presence that is always transforming things. It swallows stars, handles fresh deaths, turns filth and worms into flowers and green pods. Nothing really disappears; everything is already inside it, waiting to become something else. The speaker’s tone is not quite comforted and not quite horrified. There is awe in watching this endless process, maybe even a shiver of disgust, but also a strange tenderness. The final image—the moon laid over the dead like a white sheet—makes the whole world feel like a sickroom or a morgue that is somehow also a garden. The mood is dark, fertile, quiet, and a little unnerving, like standing too close to a mystery.
E.S. — Summary
You inevitable, Unwieldy with enormous births, Lying on your back, eyes open, sucking down stars, Or you kissing and picking over fresh deaths... Filth... worms... flowers... Green and succulent pods... Tremulous gestation Of dark water germinal with lilies... All in you from the beginning... Nothing buried or thrown away... Only the moon like a white sheet Spread over the dead you carry.