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Coming Down the Mountain

On the path lies the severed lower half of a mole.

Still silvery gray and silky fur, perfect small feet

and toes.  Dropped by a hawk?  Bitten in two?

Now the slender backbone protrudes like

a popsicle stick and black ants with blood

red middles swarm around the open wound,

pincers cutting and lifting away fragments

that look like blood drops perched on their heads.

I imagine these ants working steadily

on my own body, once I am absent from it,

carrying it away a milligram at a time.

Posted 09/07/14
Originally published in Rosebud, Issue 50, 2011.
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