K Janeschek

We are Rapidly Losing Daylight

                                                                                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.                

K Janeschek is a writer and labor organizer originally from the Midwest. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mid-American Review, Foglifter, Nimrod International Journal, HAD, Variant Lit, Split Rock Review, Poet Lore, and elsewhere, and has won an AWP Intro Journals Project award in poetry. They live in Alaska.