death in the suburbs

moth bodies on the bed were the first sign;

like omens in the form of insect carcasses

wing dust littered across the mattress,

making a light film to take a finger to

a leg here, a head here, crushed

we slept on them anyway.

 

the first one died under the kitchen table

lying on its side, eyes closed, mouth open;

still more fluid in the hand than expected

it was wrapped in grocery sack

and buried shallowly by the tree in the yard

we dug past the roots.

 

the second one died by the front door,

its black body marking the entrance to the house

like it was just lazy or something, eyes open

it was still warm and petted as though alive

then thrown into the bushes

we didn't mourn for long.

 

the third and final one died on the loveseat

with cigarette burn in the upholstery

it wasn't discovered 'til morning, mouth closed

the only one that might've made it to sunrise

it was chucked over the barbwire into the grass

we tried not to look at it.