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.
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