Familiars
These are the generations of mice that fill
my nights—running under the eaves, crossing
rafters and joists, padding insulation in the crawl
space. I am their familiar, restless and emolliated
in sweat, something not quite right with my
body clock, my systems. I can’t process darkness.
These are the generations of mice that fill
these nights, emerging from freshly dug burrows
along the front of the house, connecting their
tunnels over a bed of irregular rock. Destabilizing.
So we drywall to reinforce, almost a corbeling.
But we let them be in the familiar way. Co and existing.
These are the generations of mice that fill
daylight with whispers. The heat wears me down.
Wall spaces fluctuate. A haunting of the endocrine.
Feedback. All mice that have been in this past.
Leaving traces for next generations that sleep
can’t connect. Uncanny as mammalian warmth.
