Pellet

by ELLYN LICHVAR

 

Lump of gray dust hauled out
in palm and laid on the table. 
This is what came before— 
crumb of mouse, raptor claw. 
And what would they think, 
the animals, if they saw— 
little shits going through shit, 
line of desks inside a bricked
room. Out in the schoolyard, 
February is gray on the grass. 
Dirty as a sheet, you could
pick it up and crawl beneath. 
Give your warmth. Rain melts
snow, so it rains and rains. 
Put the tiny skull in your
pocket, for later, for your
mother. Close to your body.   
If you’d thought it would
make her love you, wouldn’t
you have swallowed it?