A month before I left you, the mice came,
leaving nibbles in our pears
and turds among the grape nuts.
Each brazen spring they waltzed
across sunlit tiles to celebrate
their grand fecundity in the darkness
of our pantry. So we unwrapped
the glue traps in silence,
laid them down before us
like a pact, end to end like barges
along trade routes, a daisy chain
around the stove, across the pantry
threshold, knowing the engagement
this would require of us.
Snappers do the work for you,
hard and swift, while you're at work,
or asleep, perhaps, leaving only
a small bundle that is flicked,
clean and easy, into the trash.
But glue traps demand your presence,
reserve your catch on a tiny tray
until you hear the panicked scream,
one that is mistaken for squeaking,
but the first time I heard it
I knew the sound, that keen
diminished note; I knew
it was my turn. I filled a bucket
with warm water, a gentle bath,
scooped up the plastic tray
which had caught just the hind legs,
so when I raised the mouse
toward the bucket, it arched
its back and flailed its free limbs, and I felt
all of its body, a fistful of fur
and tail, no heavier
than a spoon of butter, a quarter cup
of raisins, with its small determination
of muscles, defiant tendons
like spring twigs, all of this
strained against me, against the red
bucket, and I could feel it and still
I held my breath and dunked it
as it reached its claws
like rays toward the surface, mouth gasping
open and then it stopped. It stopped.
I had expected it to thrash
like a man, like some large
animal; I was unprepared
for the limpness, how easily
it crossed the line of surrender, how easily
I had acquired the expedient hand
of a god
and though you had done this
before, you could not see me
alone in the kitchen, leaning
over the stainless
steel sink. You could never know
how efficient I was,
and how easy the next one would be.
Eilish Nagle
