In the kitchen in a bowl larva
writhe. Outside, the untouched fireweed wilt first.
Each day, seven minutes of daylight
turns to night. The geese that are
still above us will starve before they
make it south. It is too late
to fly out, I mouth watching a
moth that has not moved for three
nights. For the first time in months,
I cannot see your face when I
turn to you at night. You whisper
in the dark: the larvae are a
reckoning, a bone unburied by weeks of
rain. Earlier this year, as winter succumbed
to spring, a family of rodents drowned
beneath our porch. You watched as I
threw what was left of their water-
logged flesh into the trees, squirrels squealing
and picking their skulls clean. I decide
I must set the bowl of wriggling
Bodies uncovered for the crows to take
what they like. A moose has been
dragging his dead limb through the mud—
I want to show you how to
follow him before he’s lost. This is
the last rainfall before winter. I realize
the larvae will drown before any bird
comes. Still, I leave the bowl on
the porch. I wash my hands in
rainwater, then boil the rest for your
tea. I don’t know how else to
tell you: the world is ending and
I love you.