Toss their heads onto the front porch.
The cat leaves them as gifts for us.
Blood and fur,
broom sweep and hum,
we do this once a week:
bleach away mouse blood,
feed the night air its meat,
bodiless.
If you would ever find the bodies
I know your pity
would make room for them
on the record cover, our dustpan,
tinged with Hathaway’s vocal rust,
stained brown with dried blood—
songs I could not hold:
minor offerings, shredded skin
healing at the seams a chord
I played for you, thrummed
my arm, and you listened,
wrapped my guitar-string wrist,
tossed out the razors, hummed.
Tonight, I am not afraid.
Open the window. I want to hear
the mouse head drum.