The Burnham Review

Day 2 The Rat

The rat: so much more ominous than a tiny mouse

9:30 at night I am warm and comfortably in bed
I hear our cat crying
annoyed I register the specific cry he makes
when he has caught something
a mouse, a baby bird, a tiny bunny
that creature he has caught outside
and brought inside has escaped

Moonshadow’s version of catch and release
I fling off the covers
slip into my comfortable slippers
then into the kitchen cupboard
where we keep used glass jars
pull out one with a wide mouth

My mission, I have accepted
to capture a mouse keeping everyone in the house
safe and proud of how tough and unafraid I am

At the same time realize it is a tiny mouse traumatized by our cat
not a cougar or a moose or even a coyote
I hear calling
reminding me to be embarrassed for feeling so tough
in the face of a tiny mouse trying to hide behind a box
on the floor the cat is circling
on the opposite side from Moonshadow I move the box
the mouse runs towards my open glass jar
the lesser of two evils
I imagine the mouse’s perspective

Now safely in the jar the lid covering the opening
I slide the side door
step out into the cool night air
mentally slamming
sliding the door in our cat’s face
I am protecting the mouse
Moonshadow will have to go downstairs
out the dog door if he wants at the tiny mouse again

I walk to the edge of the porch wanting to release this being
as far away from the house as I will go in my slippers
inside I see our cat nosing around the box
the smell of the mouse still on it

Tossing the jar into the recycling in the garage
I cringe at the thought of washing it out
putting it back in the cupboard
using the jar again for leftovers or dressing
or even to have with water and mint cuttings
creeps me out even though the jar is also perfect for that
I wash my hands thoroughly with soap before going back to bed
even though no part of me touched the mouse

Last night was very different than the first time
almost 60 years ago I caught a mouse
a rat really running along the street in Bogota, Colombia
I lived there when I was 6
looking back I am still not sure what possessed me
at 8 years old, reaching down, I grabbed it
immediately realized my mistake
it twisted in my hand and bit me

Scared I have never told of my fear
imagining I would die of some rat disease
but feared the trouble I would see if I complained
if I snitched on myself
ratted out my foolishness
now I know a glass jar and a cat
make a better mouse trap than a hand alone

I am working my way through "Throw Up Your Emotions on Paper, a Workbook Planner of 21 Challenges to Help You Learn to Write About Emotions in Your Memoir in 21 Days" by Carolyn V. Hamilton https://amzn.to/4dABDTJ Starting May 8, 2024 and over the next few weeks, I want to get in (better) touch with my feelings and emotions, so I can live an amazing life, have more engaged relationships and be a more Creative memoir writer. This is the poem that came out of today's exercise.

Throw Up Your Emotions on Paper!: A WORKBOOK PLANNER 21 CHALLENGES to Help You Learn to Write About Emotions in Your Memoir in 21 Days. (The Memoir to Legacy Collection) Throw Up Your Emotions on Paper!: A WORKBOOK PLANNER 21 CHALLENGES to Help You Learn to Write About Emotions in Your Memoir in 21 Days. (The Memoir to Legacy Collection)

A childhood memory in my upcoming memoir, Mistaken for a Man, a Story for Anyone Struggling to Feel Comfortable in Their Own Skin, Clothes, or Community.

The Horned Toad
Albuquerque, New Mexico ▲1962

Abandoned to the care of my aunt
old and wrinkled from a life in the sun
on the back of a huge horse
I sit on the blanket behind
the saddle where my cousin rides
the field full of sun scorched weeds
and one horned toad, fat and round
spikes jutting out from its body

I wish I was bigger
stronger than four
I would leap from the saddle
towards the unsuspecting horned toad
no one would stop me

Too small I yell about the injustice
back to the house released
from the soft woolen blanket
I run fast as I can
searching and searching
for a horned toad sandy tan
against the red dirt

I cry to my mother a few days later
when my parents return from a short trip
a tomboy thwarted

I don’t think about my cousin
scared she won’t get me back
on the horse without help if I fly off

I don’t think of the horned toad
and what this creature loves
about their wild desert life
I am just passing through
capturing memories of childhood

I may or may not include poems in my memoir but I find that writing the story in poetry form helps me write the prose story in a more vivid way. This poem could be considered similar to a "Persona" poem where the speaker and the poet are not the same person. In a memoir it would not technically be a “Persona” poem because both are the same person but they are different ages so in some ways a different people.