White

By Shamon Williams

Granny got a sticky trap.
Laced it with ham and cheese. Like a jeweler
places the finishing diamond on a ring, she gingerly
set the trap in the middle of the kitchen’s tiled floor.
Next day, the trap had a little white mouse. Small as a pendant.
Pulling its limbs in succession, like atrium chambers. 

Granny tossed it in the trash like a newspaper
boy lobs the paper on a porch. Closed lid.
Sat on the sofa. Watched her soaps. I stared. 

It invaded our home, but my contempt leaked
out my eyes anyway. Six days.
Stuck. Upside down, buried under
suffocation, molded leftovers and broken plates.
Stillness finally found it after six days

 and for all the nights it stayed
in the trash, I laid in bed. Wished for a new
room, one where the white walls aren’t
whispering, softening, and the large
bodies outside the white don’t stir.