Who knew who had placed the slice
of peach in the mousetrap—
its translucent sweetness dribbling
on the wood slab where painted logos
marked the bull’s eye. The precise 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.
