The squirrel can’t stay here, rotting in my garden.
So I push the tip of the shovel shallow
into the dirt beneath him, 
then scoot him the rest of the way on, 
black bean eyes open, lips curled back, 
body rigid as if frozen running. 
Flies buzz around us both, angry
at having their meal and their nursery disturbed.

The smell of leathery death, I nearly gag.
Only one smell as bad — bleach and decay,
the smell of the room in the nursing home
where my mother wastes away,
waiting for an end
that won’t ever seem to arrive,
the flesh refusing to quit the race,
her children waiting, our grief on ice.

I drop the squirrel into a white plastic trash bag,
tie the open end into a knot. 
Set the bag by the empty garbage cans — 
pickup day had just passed.

By the time it comes around again,
the bag shimmies, the dance of new life 
devouring the old.