Squirrel

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 mother

                  packs you a peanut-butter sandwich.
            The same lunch she packs you
                              every day that year.