Suburban Landscape Post-Rapture

In a cyclist’s testament after a crash,
dying is like the hollow seen through one
shut eye. When we disappear, the world
fills that space in. Fine-mowed lawns
grow into grasslands. Birds stir
in their mailbox roosts. Stray cats cross
the vacant roads, gutter to dry gutter.
Opossums swing their long tails
around bike racks. Tennis court fences
rust. Cars hide in garages. The walls
that separate suburbia from the silent
freeway drown in ivy. Four-bedroom
houses yield to dust. Families of mice
move into the piano, chew out
the strings. Snake spines twist
up the staircase. Fox pups curl
up in wardrobe drawers, wake later
to claw at the carpet. The only sign
of us is in the bookshelves. The dishwashers.
The DVD cases. The bathtubs. The
basement fridges. The medicine cabinets.
The tiny baseball gloves. Every empty
thing. Everything meant for holding.
Everything we let go of.