Sixth Sense

Dec 18 2012

As much disgust

as the queasy flush

of fear

in its phantom presence.

Not that I actually see

the small grey blur

scurrying through

my peripheral vision.

The sensation flashed

from the dull rim of an idling retina

directly to my reptilian brain.

And the primal rush

of blood

seconds before

I came to my senses.

A small grey mouse

in the wedge of darkness

behind the bookcase.

I imagine it trembling,

whiskers twitching

delicately sniffing the air.

And tiny fingers

on pink-skinned hands

that remind me of a little man’s,

one who understands

the power of stillness.

Did I read somewhere

their DNA is nearly human?

That we are descended

from mouse-like creatures

much like them?

Which would explain the confusion

as to man’s essential nature   —

predator

or prey?

Sometimes cowering darkly,

and sometimes swagger

as if divinely ordained.

In mean Septembers

they squeeze in nimbly

rarely glimpsed.

But I cannot bring myself to share

my space,

panic

at Malthusian contagion

their pestilent reign.

I contemplate the limp grey body

dangling from its neck.

Small black eyes

still shiny, but fixed.

Delicate hands

surprisingly pink.

And the long stiff tail

that seems snake-like, alien,

repulsive with death.

But it was either freeze

or this merciful end

I console myself.

And take small satisfaction

I am no longer squeamish,

fastidiously lifting the puny spring

featherweight, released

into the dormant garden.

Such an insubstantial thing

landing soundless.

To be gone

by morning,

which I also never see.

When my neck went stiff
suppressed a shiver.
As if a brisk September's
cleansing air
could make me less
complicit.