BURN NOT YOUR HOUSE TO FRIGHT THE MOUSE AWAY
Sometimes I worry that a mouse will drip through one of the holes the electrician left in the ceiling, where he punctured right of the living room’s overhead fixture to get at some wires like he was really grabbing into an abyss, some brand of fishing where you stand on a ladder and the lake is upside down. The beach towel that the electrician requested to attempt to gather his mess sits balled up in the kitchen, is poked nightly by the noses of a few stray roaches, begs a wash but doesn’t know how to make itself clean. There is only one light-bulb in the living room’s overhead fixture, although there is room for two more. Instead we use the floor lamp because it’s just the right amount of light and because the windows allow for enough light during the day without enhancement.
Maybe we are watching television one evening and from out of nowhere a mouse descends, floats out as if lowered by an invisible fly system. The mouse edging toward the hole, peering down at the light, readying itself. It becomes light, shot with fury at the carpet as though it meant to find through to the earth’s core.
Zachary Lutz is a writer in Brooklyn. He holds an MFA in poetry from The New School and received an honorable mention for the Paul Violi Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in Luna Negra Magazine and Handwritten.