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.