the mouse
grace mcgovern
i’m sorry i didn’t help you
when i had the chance;
i told myself inaction
was a form of kindness or, at least,
something that could not
be held up to the light.
you scratched against our wall
like a neighbor asking for flour
but it was dark and i am always
scared. i didn't want to hear it;
the guillotine-like snap
and the ensuing silence. still,
clever thing, you announced
yourself, death blooming and spreading
throughout our apartment. i think
about you every night: how small
you were. already, the room
smells like bleach and synthetic
flowers and the wall is spackled
and sanded and painted.
a moral eludes me but
i hope we kept it warm enough for you;
i hope it was like falling asleep.
Grace McGovern is a writer and editor from Chicago with a love for flowers, tea, and flowery tea. Grace's work has appeared in Dunes Review, Open Minds Quarterly, Inklette, and others, and she was the recipient of the 2016 and 2018 Academy of American Poet's University Prize.