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Poem	A woman prepared a mouse for her husband's dinner, roasting it with a blueberry in its mouth. At table he uses a dentist's pick and a surgeon's scalpel, bending over the tiny roastling with a jeweler's loupe . . . Twenty years of this: curried mouse, garlic and butter mouse, mouse sauteed in its own fur, Salisbury mouse, mouse-in-the-trap, baked in the very trap that killed it, mouse tartare, mouse poached in menstrual blood at the full of the moon . . . Twenty years of this, eating their way through the mice . . . And yet, not to forget, each night, one less vermin in the world . . .
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