Death is Taking Care of Us All

The shrunken mouse

in the drive

once looked into Her soft eyes

and huffed.

At Her empty breast,

mosquitos dried up

in August.

Where are their thready bodies?

In the bellies of birds.

My blood too

in the bellies of birds.

Where are their singing bodies?

Busy with their lavish harvest of piñon?

Languishing in 5G dreams?

Either way, my suet brick—untouched

for weeks at 20 degrees.