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Night 3
It’s still in my garden.
It’s back with a vengeance.
I can it see it there, lurking without pardon,
face black and white; its tail mocking.
Three nights in a row now:
the eyes, the fur, the scraping claws.
I sit, wrapped and waiting with furrowed brow,
it knows I know… and how little it cares.

Night 5
It was here again. It trampled my flowers:
this sickness, this thing, this worm.
Dirty tracks litter the path like guilt,
I plan a bonfire… perhaps then it’ll burn.
It was here last night too, and the three before,
I can sometimes sense it in the morning
but it lives at night, nocturnal and slick
when I’m alone... it only hides when others are dawning.

Night 10
There were a few evenings of bliss,
after night six it seemed to scarper.
Three evenings of calm, of actual quiet,
but again it rose its head, making me its martyr.
The pyre could still smoke, I can still rake,
I’d waft up smoke signals of success.
They’d dance and drift off into the lofty black lake,
and then it would know who was boss around here.

Morning 11
I’ve never understood why these beds are made just for one
when visiting hours are for the purpose of more than one.
Its sheets are plural, as are pillows not one but always two,
my little buzzer’s buttons, the hours of free TV: they both are two.
Most people here have tubes, some dual, some three,
at least one in and one out and some more around feet, like my three.

There’s not just one of anything here:
not one of this gender, nor one of this age,
not one nurse nor doctor, nor one orderly or page;
not one go at treatment. I’m at nearly all ten.
Each time I’ll talk to others; last time Lisa, today Ben.

Morning 14
It took the damn food,
“That little !” I curse.
The trap left wide open,
I’ll get it yet… it’ll have its hearse.

Night 20
My family celebrate. I’m in remission.
My husband smiles with the news: no more tubes, no more incision.
They cook for me this evening, they play music inside,
I receive cards, chocolates, flowers: all laced with joy people can’t hide.

Outside, I stand in the garden
and see the trap has now worked.
I lift its limp body, 
I dig where it once lurked.

It is relief I should feel? 
Or guilt? Perhaps sorrow?
I beat it at its own game. 
I can rest come tomorrow.

This menace came into my garden, 
it invaded my home.
I fought to protect not only myself,
this battle was not mine alone.

But it looks so small now, 
so tender and at peace.
I crouch by the body, just me and it.
I await the release.
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