I hate mice. I hate bats. I understand where Judith Minty is coming from in the poem below. The only thing I don't understand is the guilt at the end. I can't. I have nightmares about rodents (with feet or wings). It all stems back to childhood exposure to the movie Willard. (If you have never seen the film, don't bother. It's a hideous film about a boy who can control rats.)
But, putting that aside, I will say that Minty's poem is beautiful, despite its subject matter.
Saint Marty does not feel guilty about this post. At all.
Section 27 from "Spring" in Yellow Dog Journal
by: Judith Minty
Since I have been here, I have killed
two mice in traps and one bat
I beat to death in the outhouse.
Last night my dreams were colorless.
I think I missed the whir of wings,
the sound of tiny nails on the floor,
fur skimming close to my face. Something
gnaws inside my head. It asks forgiveness.