MICE

The field mouse is an easy catch, 
even at three a.m., 
when Appleseed carries it 
into my bed to play, waking me 
with ruffled cries as she 
tosses it into the air and pounces.

I could do it in my sleep:
switch on the lamp, fumble
for glasses, then the plastic
tumbler, swallow the last
of the water, locate the mouse 
gray and dazed, trembling
under a shoe. Scooping it 
into the cup, I wonder if this
is how God feels, staring down
at a creature infinitely small
and uncomprehending. 

Can it be that I am 
as mysterious to him 
as this mouse to me?

I stumble outside and kneel
to tip the animal into freedom,
the dark of the ivy scrolling 
along the fence. As usual, I have to
nudge it forward with my toe. 

What with the cat
nosing under the covers
m’ruffing, looking for 
her toy under the dresser,
in every corner, it takes time                      
to fall back asleep. And I can’t
stop worrying about all                              
the mice for whom I’ve merely
postponed death. How do they
find their nest, what if 
the owl is out?                                  

Forgetting what it is she can’t find, 
my cat gives up and curls near me, 
purring, licking the taste 
from her paws. Sleep darkens me.
My thoughts creep off like mice. 

Born and raised in the East San Francisco Bay Area, Christina Hauck completed a Ph.D. at U.C. Berkeley in 1994 and moved to Manhattan, Kansas where she taught literature at Kansas State University for several decades. She and her wife recently moved to Lawrence, KS where they live the leisured life of retirees. Her poems have appeared in many small journals, most recently Monterey Review, Collateral, and Stone Circle Review. She has poems forthcoming in Coal City Review, Flint Hills Review, and Streetlight Magazine.