by Hume Linty
The flakes of mud that froze
upon my tree-trunk legs
couldn’t protect me from
the mouse that ate my memory.
He crossed their leaping cliffs
and ignored their deafening wails
to crawl, unnoticed, into my colossal ears.
Perhaps he mistook my earwax for cheese
and nibbled until years were shredded
between his teeth,
or he simply thought I was too plugged
up to hear anymore.
I don’t understand why we fear them –
those small and irrelevant creatures;
nor why we dread the winter
that spits upon my carcass
and pulls apart my bones—
whose feelings rest in the stomach
of the mouse that ate my memory.