They wait in the fridge with sprouting garlic
and baggies of curry leaves, a season

trapped beneath their skin like a jinn.
No one eats them, yet we keep stocking up

he crack of dawn is a dark rinse,
humidity descending, night lifting,
bird band rattling while the lead sings
a long note and the counterpoint chirps
witchy witchy witchy witchy witchy

The mouse in our house is a rat,
lugging stale pita across the floor
like a shield,

slipping inside the stove
all scramble and scratch,

Evening snuck in while
you were knitting,
eyes downward,
focused on a head full of knots.
Your labrador followed in a deeper hue,

Eight days of rain and he’s climbing the door jambs,
bare feet and spine wedged against the molding,
clothing strewn below.
He inches up: Mommy, look at me!

Going out doesn’t help.