Nell Farrell: COMMENDED Dead Mouse Poem

We have stitched the mouse inside a banana skin,
backstitch over-sewn with crosses to hold together
the places where we peeled its waxy yellow shell apart.
Mouse fur slides against the moist lint of its pith
and there is not the sweet smell you might imagine.
The banana wasn’t ripe
was chosen above all for its size
and the mouse is tiny.

I was asked to look more closely but declined.
Fear still froths around my heart
so the fact that I could crunch
its bones between my palm and fingers doesn’t help.

Since there is no requirement
that the stitching be invisible
we have laced it up with trussing string
like a Christmas recipe from foxed old pages

where you stuff a quail inside the linnet
you sang about when you were seven
inside the wagtail you identified all by yourself
one Tuesday lunchtime

inside the thrush you saw
stealing dog food from a bowl
inside the parrot that escaped from a caravan
and flew around that campsite in St Ives

inside the eagle
that held the sky above your head
in the Picos de Europa mountains
the day you cycled as high as anyone could go.