Brought to the deck
in the epitome of rigor mortis,
tail hung squarely between two boards,
hands and feet splayed,
sharp nose pointed at the dawn—
I have no choice but to look it up
and wonder which goals (in shrew
symbolism) I’ve been neglecting.
What more worldly desires have I
to overcome? Clothes, money,
yet the desire for a pain-free life—
is that too much to ask?
Big black eye open and reflecting
a bit of cloud from the summer sky.
Cleft mouth about to speak,
if shrews could talk, about hardship
and the Maine Coon that came from nowhere
though it easily could have died
from being picked up or hearing thunder.
In that way I feel a certain kinship
and wish the man hadn’t thrown it
into the trash bin. I’d have kept this shrew
around, had it eviscerated and hung
in my bedroom as a symbol,
even if the taxidermist I hired had to ask
(working deep in the guts of the thing)
those questions regarding my need
for a three-dimensional model
of what Shakespeare used for one oeuvre.
That’s one famous play, he (the taxidermist)
would say and I’d nod,
remain silent, my lips pressed together
as the skin underwent disinfection
before this entity far smaller than a deer
or an elk became the totem
above a double bed I share with no one.
Click here to read Judith Skillman on the origin of the poem.
Image: by Gilles Gonthier, licensed under CC 2.0.
- The Shrew - April 7, 2023
- Short History of the Accident - April 30, 2021