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Mice Verses Man
Poetry by R Jay Slais
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Excerpts
Middle of the Night We Weep
Son, too young to fully understand
how a marriage could break,
unlike the table full of precious
things, now dismembered figurine shards,
picked up one piece at a time by him and I
after mother assaulted the peace
in an out of control moment of rage.
Our family photo in the pile, framework separated,
shattered glass poking into our bodies;
the marriage bond is invisible, untouchable.
He is like me,
a mama’s boy.
He wears many labels,
L.D., A.D.D., Special Ed,
little brother, that boy.
His whole life,
mother had done
everything for him,
yet, she was doing him
no favors in the end.
After my new label single father stuck,
the trial is over, my instincts still intact,
my actions are placed on that empty table
for everyone to see and judge. One night,
well after midnight, he came unpeeled,
lethargic, fever shooting bullets of sweat.
I knew what to do, give medicine, a tepid bath,
comforting words, still he cried. He was incoherent,
inconsolable, all he wanted was to be held close,
rocked back to sleep in his mother’s arms.
Enter the Unknown
Three deer, delaying rest, cross the graveyard
through the mid morning mist,
a doe tracing the dew-steps of her two yearlings;
their teeth grind rhythm of pulp,
ignores the chew of death that surrounds them.
Alert, their ears shift in sync,
startled by the faint cries of pain
from a grieving mother, six months sonless
still not accepting his sudden dirt.
It began as a simple fever, his face pale, lethargic
as an unread book, spine never cracked,
left ignored on the shelf. Lines of sweat drained
like a row of icicles in a spring heat wave.
Enter the Specialist, his hands are full of talent,
yet his diagnosis is delayed for one more test,
the results left to ponder, while the son slowly sank
as if in a bed of quicksand, half his face remained visible
long enough for several good night kisses, an I Love You.
Doctor is merely human, not God, sudden as sunup
piercing the horizon, the boy’s bed is empty.
Mother’s heart turned lead heavy like his coffin
that had to be carried by seven cousins and uncles
and a father unseen for years. The tender
spring grasses surrounding his marble marker thrive;
three deer now satisfied scatter light foot
toward the safety of the woods. They pause for a moment
as if to memorize the mother’s honor roll of tears,
then turn into the shadows of trees, the edges yellowed
by streaks of sunlight; their journey through death
unknown to the one unwilling to look up.
Some Things Severed
I mowed Charlie’s parents grass to make a buck
for several years after he was gone.
My patterns of severing had evolved;
the mower wheel tracks that remain visible
for a week or so. It was an art form of sorts,
how the crisscrossing lines filled that empty yard.
They also hired me to check the inside of their house
while they were on hunting holidays or vacation;
their week or two away from home trying to forget.
Once, I heard strange noises in the other room,
no one should have been there, only me;
I tracked down the noises because it was my duty.
As I entered the living room, which was filled
with Charlie’s father’s taxidermy trophies,
dead animals with glass eyes on all four walls,
a fox squirrel leapt from a big buck’s antler to the floor.
When he landed, brown oval shitballs shot from his ass.
I am not sure who was more startled, the squirrel or me.
I finally trapped the scared animal in the bathroom trash pail,
took him outside, and watched him squirrel up a white pine.
I could never bring myself to check the basement,
the place Charlie and I had played hide and seek as kids.
I will always remember the time I hid in the dryer,
my skinny frame coiled around the drum, door closed.
His father was livid; he said that I did not know
how close I came to death down there in the dark,
all it would have taken is one touch of the on switch.
I think about that and of Charlie’s last few minutes down there,
what must have been going through his mind,
his finger on the trigger, shotgun barrel under chin.
After the shot, his half dressed torso tumbled down
the last few stairs ending in a pile at the bottom
as if he were a load of blood stained laundry
thrown out of the way to be taken care of later.
Charlie laid there hidden for more than a week
until the holiday his parents were on had ended.
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