by Marjorie Wisler

All the time I was

suffocating mortal mice to

spare their destined demise by way of

        under-bellies held fast to

        a tray of some chemical

        securing agent.

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I would watch their breath quicken

        carefully sealed plastic-wrap transforming to a

        one-dimensional kaleidoscope of

        condensation with each

        fervent exhalation.

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Labored vocalizations and with

eyeballs popping from adhered sockets

they would die calmly and

        quietly while through a reflective film I

        caressed and

        calmed them.

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The last died differently, and,

        altered he was to a

        black labyrinth, a

        breeding ground.

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When I saw his

hollowed corpse, once

        stuck fast to

        my Grandmother’s golden wood floor, I

        started with surprise before

kneeling with sadistic curiosity. I

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cannot escape from my mind the sight of that

        frozen cadaver, last moments

        rendered temporarily in a hairy, flattened

        carbon cast.

 

A cold intake swelled as I

lifted the chip half-mast to find wrinkled black

        open craters ejecting

        pearlescent crescents noisily

        flipping to the golden wood floor below,

        becoming one

writhing cluster of transportive larvae.

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        The communal jostle had sent his

        solidified casing from hiding

        to the

exposing electric lights and the peripheral of

my photographic eyes, now calmly

        popping from intact

        Unsecured sockets.