Who knew who placed the slice
of peach in the mousetrap—
its clear sweetness dribbling
on the wood slab where painted logos
marked the bull’s eye. The identity
of the perpetrator was irrelevant but
the evidence left behind was clear: a heart beat—
lubdub lubdub dub-dub-a-dub—
an eye’s iris wheeling nebulae and loose suns,
a fingerpad touch succulent as a breast.
Ah poet! My brother, my sister, my terrorist.