Infestation
The house I used to live in was
overrun by ants and mice.
The whole grand house was
crawling: the columns,
the floors. Once, a mouse
got caught in the garbage
disposal. In my rage, in my
fear, I told my housemate
to turn it on. Funny,
the quickness of violence.
Funny how the blood on my
hands is not mine. She didn’t
turn it on, instead, took the thing
to a nearby park and set it free.
I don’t know if I’ll ever feel
like I fought enough for my own life.
I don’t know if I'll ever forgive myself.
I wake and repent to all small things.
overrun by ants and mice.
The whole grand house was
crawling: the columns,
the floors. Once, a mouse
got caught in the garbage
disposal. In my rage, in my
fear, I told my housemate
to turn it on. Funny,
the quickness of violence.
Funny how the blood on my
hands is not mine. She didn’t
turn it on, instead, took the thing
to a nearby park and set it free.
I don’t know if I’ll ever feel
like I fought enough for my own life.
I don’t know if I'll ever forgive myself.
I wake and repent to all small things.
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Dani Janae Dani Janae is a poet and journalist living and writing in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been published by Argot Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Palette Poetry, Wax Nine Journal, Levee Magazine, and Slush Pile Magazine. Her manuscript, Motherless Fruit, was a finalist for the 2021 CAAPP Book Prize. She is a contributing writer at Autostraddle.
Twitter // @figwidow Instagram // @bell.biv.dahoe |