Three Drowned Mice

 

In September

the rodents move in

from the grasses and sunshine

to the spaces between the walls

and floorboards,

carrying seeds and looking 

for crumbs from the toaster

and the occasional ripening pear 

or red tomato on the kitchen counter;

a prune under the edge of the oven.

Last night I trapped them,

drowning three

in a bucket in the basement.

They were not blind.

They used their quivering noses

to find the pasty peanut butter

on the can over the barrel

and fell

to their watery 

deaths,

never to chase me in the night

with their scratchy scurry again.

Not one to ever nibble

through the crusts of the sourdough,

poop in the cupboards near the cups 

and unsuspecting saucers,

or shove seeds into the toes of my sneakers.

Human 3, mice zero.

Better Sleep Is On The Way

The sales girl tells me

she is the daughter of a dairy farmer

who died when she was four,

her mother never hugged her--

never.

"What's the matter with you?" she said

"Your mother hug you too much,

or not enough?"

How I miss my mother,

the way she smiled

when we greeted in the morning

with a song or like old friends 

hugging tightly.

The memory of her strong

and careful little fingers on the lids

of my child eyes

as she gentled me to sleep.

"Better Sleep Is On The Way"

is the ordinary tagline of the mattress store 

in tax-free Keene, New Hampshire.

Bea hands me a medium pillow,

and a paper doiley to keep 

my braids from the fibers of the fabric

between petite me and each trial of comfort.

Too firm, too fancy, too expensive,

too bouncy, too plastic, too cold,

until we narrow it to two.

The mattress back home,

nearly twenty years my companion,

is older than any marriage or time 

with a trusted lover.

The dip under my left hip

and the collapsing edges

have urged me to endure the banter

of the Providence accent

that has likely never 

stepped foot on any farm.

"I'll take this one." I whisper in apology.

She has mercy on me.

Free delivery

and they will take away the body

filled with mites and skin

and all the stains of too many nights.

Guaranteed for ten years.

She hugs me,

calls me Honey,

offers me a butterscotch candy

on my way out.

They will deliver

next Sunday.

I will be ready 

for the call.

Red Riding Hood

Last night I woke,
voice stuck in my throat,
choking and tears unstoppable.

A shadow of a girl was climbing
into the bed with me
to spit into my eyes
and my open mouth.
Unendurable fear
of her angry saliva
damaging my innocence,
unstoppable.

My arms paralyzed,
body trapped,
I groaned awake 
apologizing to the sleeping household
for my disruption of the peace.

"I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry. . .
I'm sorry."

My heart awake,
the mind wandered to the woods
and the wolf
where good little girls 
in red hoods
doing good things
get off the path,
only for a moment,
and danger consumes them.