I am hiding from the mice.
It is three o'clock in the morning
and I hear scratching, claws.
By daylight who knows.
Who knows what comes.
My husband's voice in my head
two minutes ago:
But you don't like the old.
You're a modernist.
I didn't tell him that.
I hadn't even known it
until now,
lying in bed
with a mouse rallying for entry
and tombstones,
death,
above my head.
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