Rosemary Kirk

There it is now,

that distant scrape

of claw,

scrabbling against

the cupboard of

her soul;

something’s been nibbling

with insistent jaw,

chewing her wooden mind,

leaving a hole

through which she sniffs

the tell-tail smell of rat:

the fury

of her husband’s

sudden snaps,

the corpses

of her furry dreams

squashed flat,

and now

her thoughts run,

too big for mousetraps.


‘Mousetraps’ was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition, April 2012


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