Death is emptying us out with the flat teaspoon

of minutes, bit by bit, without being excessively

voracious. Sometimes it opens the fridge and contemplates us

in the chilled, bluish light, like someone who gets up

at midnight, half-wanting something, without really knowing what.

In the street, someone is lowering the restaurant blinds

with a useless gesture. Seated between empty tables and chairs,

death reviews the menu for the umpteenth time,

repeats our names between its teeth,

unraveling them, as if scouring for

morsels of meat hidden in the cartilage

of this bird without lessening who we are.

Every morning we pack our bags and take flight

with the first swallows,

but the mouth that devours us

ends up being larger

than the parabola

of our flight.