When you died, I thought it was the wind.
You died with all the sound and ceremony
Of a pen hitting the floor. You died
Hungry, in the early morning’s light.
You would not know this from the traps jaws,
But my people lionize you in stories.
You wield sewing needle as swords,
Courageous leaders of mousekind.
We use you as a symbol of bravery,
Of cunning, of facing unlikely odds,
Of the heroism of the impossible,
And of noble kindness.
But your death was not brave, little one.
You died desperate, nose forward,
In search of your next meal before
Being snapped in half by a dull guillotine.
I carried you out in a plastic bag,
The sole attendant to your funeral.
You paid for the crime of being filthy
And in need of breakfast.
I cleaned the spot on the kitchen floor
Where your life ended. I boiled water
And made my oatmeal. My comrade,
We both love peanut butter.
I might come back to this poem and rewrite it in a rhyming verse. Sometimes, if I like an idea, I'll just write it in a few different styles before committing to one. The images here need to be honed. I should maybe sharpen the ending too. Maybe other iterations will improve them.