Museum
She was a security guard and even though her uniform was black I could seeIt was covered in blood, the marble floor was covered in blood, it wasSlowly pooling out from the space where HER HAND used to beOh my god, I said, then I started to say, YOUR HAND, but it felt wrongTo call it HER HAND, now that it was gone, now that there was not A HAND at allAnd that HAND was like THE MOUSE I killed, once, by sealing it in a Ziploc bagAnd its mouse trap, too, and its smear of glue, hardened around its legsI can’t kill THE MOUSE, I thought, but I thought, I have already killed THE MOUSEI squeezed out all the air I could, after a few minutes it lost its…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2020