Attrition

Long again, the way home;

clouds unfold and fold.

A moth or a bat—anyway,

there was that book

of flowers, pressed,

under her bed. No—

wouldn't have been a book,

would it?—

a ziploc bag, well used.

She'd freeze raw chicken breasts

to defrost and roast

with salt and dried rosemary.

The bags wore holes

from how she'd wash them—

scrub too hard, wipe too dry,

freeze, defrost, wash—

and a fragrant dust

crushed out, ashed a path

across the floral carpet.

Uncountable, the birds

those meals amounted to,

the heaps of beating hearts

she'd plucked and dried.

No, she didn't know

where the flowers came from.

Some special occasion,

an heirloom,

immaculate conception—

did it matter?

Anyway, a bat or a moth

and the moon, the clouds—

the long way home.