Death March

Death March

We make our beds, we
turn out all the lights
but one. The garden goes
to rot, we pile leaves when
the winds begin to gust, when
we know we'll let
the grass spoil beneath.
We bleach the towels, mop
the floors and our
distorted reflections.

Headlights only reach
so far—the bright stars like
holes in our chests. The radio,
fed from miles of darkness, cannot
penetrate this. We fold
clothes and untangle cobwebs
clinging to corners and spin
them into thoughts that spill
out as words to cover
the refrigerator's buzz and
the moan of the furnace
and cars passing
in the night.

We pack the bags
we don't take with us.