Wood Mouse

We lure you with mealworms, apple, seed.
Protein being valuable, you risk
the narrow metal tunnel, trip
a sudden slam behind you.  As you feed

you hear our voices trumpeting, the scrape
of undergrowth.  Light drowns you, faces loom:
fingers pink as yours pinch at your nape
the way your mother used to, lifting you

before enormous eyes.  I check your weight,
note gender.  Foolishly relax my grip
enough to let you turn, trap-swift,
to bite me.  Startled by the needle heat

I drop you, suck the blood.  And there –
your signature incision: perfect, square.

Suzanna Fitzpatrick

If you have any comments on this poem,  Suzanna Fitzpatrick would be pleased to hear from you.