The mousetrap snapped to life while we slept.
We know this because the paper bag has moved
into the corner of the kitchen
and the tip of his tail peers out at us.
It has been your habit to set up traps in paper bags
so you can throw away their bodies without having to look.

This time the bag lacks the crisp edges
we have come to associate with death: wrinkled, worn,
softer to the touch than than the top of your grandfather’s head.
These bags are more for you, not them. Anything
so you feel less guilty; take comfort
in knowing that his final moments
were spent in exploration, not fear.

We had come to know him you thought. Never catching a glimpse,
but I heard him scramble inside the walls and vent;
I flailed at his shadows with unraveled coat hangers, sent threats
his direction,
punched holes in the drywall
as though intimidation worked both ways.

You said you didn’t want him dead, only to leave our house.
When you cried, I said I only wanted to protect you;
and in your dreams, you wanted somehow to believe I could.

You speak to his carcass
softly; sharing revelations and confessions you still keep from me.
From the inside, you can hide what you want to hide,
and so it was a fitting tribute. Secrets die with their owners,
and this mouse takes his and yours
to a dumpster in Central Square.

copyright Giles Li, 2007