One bite of the bad cheese left
by the wife
and we tottered and sidled, feeble
as grandfathers. A black spot bloomed.
A knuckle
of darkness
gouged out our eyes. At first, we panicked, scurrying
about, running into ourselves--
three runt patsies piping a fife. We couldn't find,
to save our lives, the knothole's hollow eye,
we, the plagued, always shy
of the sly mouser,
the appalling pounce
of the baited trap. We raced around
like scraggly wind-up toys, ticking
the way we mice must tick
on the cold tiles.
And then we braced, blinking, cowering--
clumped on the floor
like a livid bump
from a blow. Before, we'd gone
about our awful hunger, weary
as priests, but now we knew
there was no way out, no more
than out of blindness, steeled
for the worst, as we were.
It was then that she came at us with the carving knife.
