Jan/Feb 2018 Poetry |
Textile Photo Art by Jeffrey Trespel
Squirrel
When your attic becomes squirrel-infested,
your mother dices her old
bleach tablets,
then lathers them
in peanut-butter.
She orders you to sweep
the dust-heavy wood, orders you to look out for
squirrel scat.A mother's home
is hers to protect from pest, your mother
says as she bends over their droppings,
as she scatters the traps
into nook and cranny.Days from June
and the first one furls on the floor.
You don
oven mitts and clean the mess,
cry as you scoop the body—
the stiff tail,
the sun-stained fur.
Your mother spread out
on the couch downstairs.Summer ends and school starts.
Your pen feels too light in your hand.
You rarely talk.
The faces in the history book
look haunted;
the brush-green mat in P.E.
feels damp and spooky
like the forest
behind your house. For lunch, your motherpacks you a peanut-butter sandwich.
The same lunch she packs you
every day that year.