litter the glue trap meant for mice
like cut coal fallen from a train,
so many I wonder how to extrapolate the number
of terrors that lurk in walls, flimsy ceiling.
These could be part of a plastic playset
of Vlad the Impaler’s flying corpses,
except they nailed themselves in place
by crossing a tiger pit at night.
I feel sorry for them, although I hate them,
tremble at their dead legs pointed toward nirvana.
Is this the grief of a genocidal tyrant?
I’d think one body would ward off the next;
they keep coming when no one’s watching,
accepting death as long as the path is straight.
--
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.