-the pantry-

the pantry made a more practical case for being

than the parlor.

one small window at the end of its narrow interior

was all that was needed.

the parlor was closed to us as if an investigation

was in progress.

when we did venture into the parlor it was like a violation.

we’d leave our snacks behind before entering.

you need a good reason to enter the parlor.

the pantry had petrified jam speckled on the walls.

It had that little chrome strip running along the edge

of the counter like a belt holding everything in place.

they'd wake members of families in the parlors.

that didn’t happen at our house.

but in the pantry, the mouse with its head in the trap

behind the little latched door under the counter
where the cleaning poisons were stored
and the pipes gurgled, and that was good enough for us.

my mother would lament: “poor little thing” as my father

lifted the tension of the fatal spring-bar off its neck,

pinch-grip the animal by the end of its worm of a tail,

then toss it into the backyard for the cat's afternoon performance

attended by me, a few friends and a cousin or two.

   
                                                                 Quequechan