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.
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