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Many poems by Glory Cumbow like this:

Fertile Decay

I'm ready.

It's time for a compost pile.

First come the eggshells

that I had to tiptoe on

so as not to offend you.

Then come the dry leaves

from the bushes I had to beat around

so that you never had to face the truth.

Next are the banana peels,

the traps of deceit

you laid down to slip me up.

After that, I dump in the clippings

that I had to cut down

to reveal your identity

as a snake in the grass.

Finally, I sprinkle in the ashes

from the letters and pictures

that I set aflame.

This pile is rotten,

reeking of death.

But my, oh my,

just wait and see

the life I will be able to grow

from this fertile decay.