a poetry e-zine










Poems By Elizabeth Szewczyk
On Burying Moths and Calendars

Don’t thou love life? Then do not
squander time, for that the stuff life
is made of.

- Ben Franklin

Sitting in her writing chair,
she stares at numbers on

a calendar, as the sun melts
pink, another day burying

into the horizon.
Her rust striped cat bats

two moths on the oak floor,
and one, clutching its wings,

spastic, loose, crawls under
the rug’s clipped corner.

She pauses, breathless, as life
vanishes into white dust,

selects a sheltered grave
where time releases its hold,

alone and tattered.
Calendars bat life, pull

each day under the rug.
Square symbols with numbered

graves, a single X sweeping
through each center core.

She leaves her chair,
and buries the calendar.

Elizabeth Szewczyk is an instructor of English at Asnuntuck Community College, Enfield , Connecticut . She is the author of the memoir, “My Bags Were Always Packed: A Mother’s Journey Through Her Son’s Cancer
Treatment And Remission”, and has published poetry in journals including Pulse, and Red River Review.


Copyright 2007  Chantarelle's Notebook