My Closet

Who thought peanut butter could be so deadly?
The flattened, nearly headless mouse lay stiff
the trap sprung, but not a lick of Jif remained.
What peanut butter peril enticed the rodent there
to release the bale that bloodied hair, what pain.
Did it see stars before the end? Was it instant death?
Or were there seconds of nervous charge elapsed
a crashing synapse, broken neck, and matted pelt
a terror, a sharpened, sickened moment's motion
a squeal before no air could pass the esophagus?

The mousetrap sits on the drainboard drying.
Scrubbed clean of fear-soaked blood and urine,
ready to bring another mouse to ruin in the closet.
Reset with peanut butter and returned downstairs.