POETRY | Rebecca Findlay Fieldmouse

POETRY

Fieldmouse

By Rebecca Findlay

His tiny yellow teeth, bright as goldenrod, bare themselves with a rhythm as he gasps a shuddering breath I can’t hear. He can’t move – spine broken from the worrying, though no blood. I hold him like the Eucharist, palm under palm under body pried from the dog’s mouth a few moments before. I don’t know if I am helping this small thing die well and warm, or myself, but I have decided that it is better to lie under the grey winter sky than cold and alone in disrupted earth. The killing dog sits curious, watching until all three of us are still.