Washing my hands with soap, I thought
not of COVID-19 but of Lady Macbeth
scrubbing, scrubbing the invisible blood
on her hands, but it won’t come off.
She surfaced from my subconscious
working overtime to deal with guilt
for having set up a D-CON trap
for the ever-present mice who inhabit
the ridgepole domain in this writing
house, reproducing and defecating
onto my books, desks, me, the floor
until I reached my limit––
I can’t do this anymore!
Even now they’re dying deaths
quick but painful at my hand,
my hands scrubbing, scrubbing
the mouse blood away, but it
won’t come off. It won’t come off.