A woman prepared a mouse for her husband's dinner,
roasting it with a blueberry in its mouth.
At table he uses a dentist's pick and a surgeon's scalpel,
bending over the tiny roastling with a jeweler's loupe . . .
Twenty years of this: curried mouse, garlic and butter
mouse, mouse sauteed in its own fur, Salisbury mouse,
mouse-in-the-trap, baked in the very trap that killed it,
mouse tartare, mouse poached in menstrual blood at the full
of the moon . . .
Twenty years of this, eating their way through the
mice . . . And yet, not to forget, each night, one less vermin
in the world . . .
Well, that certainly destroyed every last single desire to eat that I had, how about you? It has its humor but I just lost the desire to giggle for some reason.
plain jane living aint the thang, give me the vine, devine opine.set to nine, millimeter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In some part of India they do eat mouse....Nice poem.