Brown, "Mouse"

I admire the way mouse dashes across the top bracket
of the blinds while we’re reading in bed. I admire the tiny whip
 
of its tail at the exact second my husband tries to grab it.
I admire the way it disappears into our house and shreds various
 
elements. I admire the way it selects the secret corridors
behind cupboards and drawers, the way it remains on the reverse
 
side of our lives. The mouse is what I think of when I think of
a poem, or of music, going straight for the goods, around
 
the barrier of our thoughts. It leaves droppings, pretending to be
not entirely substantial, falling apart a little here and there.
 
Clearly, it has evolved perfect attention to detail. I wish it would
concentrate on the morning news, pass the dreadfulness out
 
in little pellets. Yesterday I found a nest of toilet paper and
thought I’d like to climb onto that frayed little cloud. I would like
 
to become the disciple of that mouse and sing “Wooly Bully”
in a tiny little voice in the middle of the night while the dangerous
 
political machines are all asleep. I would like to have a tail
for an antenna. But, I thought, also, how it must be to live alone
 
among the canyons of cabinets, to pay that price, to look foolish
and trembling in daylight. Who would willingly choose to be
 
the small persistent difficulty? So I put out a spoonful of peanut butter
for the mouse, and the morning felt more decent, the government
 
more fair. I put on my jeans and black shirt, trying not to make
mistakes yet, because it seemed like a miracle that anyone tries at all.


Fleda Brown

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