Familiars

These are the generations of mice that fill

my nights—running under the eaves, crossing

rafters and joists, padding insulation in the crawl

space. I am their familiar, restless and emolliated

in sweat, something not quite right with my

body clock, my systems. I can’t process darkness.

These are the generations of mice that fill

these nights, emerging from freshly dug burrows

along the front of the house, connecting their

tunnels over a bed of irregular rock. Destabilizing.

So we drywall to reinforce, almost a corbeling.

But we let them be in the familiar way. Co and existing.

These are the generations of mice that fill

daylight with whispers. The heat wears me down.

Wall spaces fluctuate. A haunting of the endocrine.

Feedback. All mice that have been in this past.

Leaving traces for next generations that sleep

can’t connect. Uncanny as mammalian warmth.