Dead moles don’t dig anymore,
though they still sink at a lesser clip
in the loamy soil of gastric fields.
Dead bats drop into the river
as if they loosened the vise grips
on their capsized slumbers.
Although I’ve never spotted their bodies
floating in the water, their splayed wings
of black leather patagium, a pool
of fallen Icaruses clustered together
like Chiroptera lily pads for the dragonflies
to hover among, gravy skins for the mold to form
as a foam head does on a milkshake.
In this way, the river digests in buoyant
translucence
compared to the famished envelopment
of its banks. When I am expired,
set my pyre adrift among the earth’s tapeworms,
in a sea of grounded weeds tucked away from
the voyeurs rubbernecking from the bridge,
digging their knees into the railings
for leverage, for a glimpse, morbidly
curious,
as I was.
Click here to read Jake Onyett on the origin of the poem.
Image by Irina Iriser on pexels.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Death Wish - December 5, 2025