A Dead Squirrel

A squirrel died on my front lawn. I saw it fall, As warm and round as an overripe peach. I heard it land, like an olive dropped on hard wood, splayed in a spot where passers-by looked away on purpose. Flies congregated, brushed their legs against each other. I canceled a dinner party because of the smell: a low noisome hum thick as sulphur on the head of a match just burnt, sour as eggs. My stomach curled low into my hips when I searched the air outside my window, perversely sniffing. Swollen flies met in congress, they rubbed their legs together, trying to start a fire.