Thousands of mayflies
float upon the water,
wings splayed upon the surface,
tails trailing behind.
A few, left poised
on the cedar siding
of the house,
have wings raised full sail,
tails upswept,
reminding me of pert, smiling girls
in sepia photographs on the walls
of Auschwitz.
Mayflies have two things to do,
mate and die,
and only a day to do them.
Just to make sure,
they have been given no mouths.
they cannot protest, or plead
or put it off by talking it over
with a cup of coffee and a cheese danish.
The end is the same for those sepia girls
whose days were not numbered by nature,
whose once smiling mouths would cry out
in protest, plead for reprieve,
to a world without ears.
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