Tale of a Mouseby Yu-Han Chao
Ο The first thing I saw was you. Perfect, white, albino cherry you. A white furball, the kind with plastic eyeballs that roll and feet that stick. Innocent, fuzzy, shivering in your white ball.
Ψ Then I saw a snake in the same cage as you. Forked tongue, the devil’s pike. Scales, gleaming eyes. Long, patterned. I realized. You were its food. You, so perfect, beautiful, innocent. It, so ugly, cold, hungry.
ψ
Psi. A sigh. What can I do to save you? If I walk away and ask the saleslady for your price, will the snake attack you? If it attacks you now, can I fend it off? It has teeth. And venom. What can I do, my little white mouse?
ο
Omicron. Literally, small o. How can they feed you to a snake, you, just a baby! How many hours have you been alive? How I want to reach in and scoop you up, perfect furball. I’d feed you and love you and give you a name and a home. And write you poems.
θ The symbol of you. Why am I so stuck on the image of you, your perfect, white, albino cherry circle? The Egyptians used an X in a circle as a symbol for the soul. Theta, the Cosmos, a fiery ball represented the world, a snake spanning the middle. A snake! It should be that wretched reptile in your circular belly, not you between its loose jaws. In classical Athens, theta is Thanatos, death. Is this your death built into your being, your symbol?
T Tau. In Chinese, to tau is to escape, with the zu, “leg”, radical. Get on your feet, mouse, stop sitting in your inert, hunched ball. Run, mouse, run!
Z Or do you think that because you’re immobile, still, faking your death, the reptile will not attack you? But it can feel your breath, hear your heartbeat, sense your warmth, the sweet scent of your infant’s flesh. Don’t fall asleep, mouse, or you may not wake up!
ς The snake makes a move. Quick, smooth, slithery, a gleam of the glass eye. Your sweet breath makes its cold heart that pumps cold blood quicken, its slender snake’s stomach expand with expectation.
δ You unfurl from your ball and I see for the first time your tail, a curled question mark, disappointingly, almost a rat’s tail.
Λ From a new angle I see your muzzle, pointier than I knew, and right there, despite imminent danger, you wash your face and nose with your little paws.
€ I did not notice you had four fingers and four toes pale pink and near hairless in closeup, much like those of a little human, hands and feet that would make the mother cry upon counting.
λ Your little whiskers curve delicately at the tip. Whiskers are important, my mother says. A psychology and science major, she once cut the whiskers off mice just like you a control group and an experimental group, whiskered and whiskerless. She dropped them in water and waited to see which group drowned first. The result? Those with no whiskers gave up their ghosts first.
σ A frantic dash to your right, my left, the snake’s front, much ado about what cannot be helped. Should I watch on? Can I bear your struggle, witness your death? I could never watch you drown.
μ I imagine you as the tragic hero brave Achilles fulfilling his fate. One, singular, noble tear slips out from a corner of one dark, glimmering eye. You, with a tear.
ω Or maybe you are more cowardly than I thought. You turn your rear end, your tailed back, to your predator and face the wall. The mouse posing as ostrich, backed into a corner, head in a box.
б Then you make one last run for it. A white tadpole, a singular sperm, a partially peeled, mold-covered orange. But there are only six sides to your cage, and gravity holds you down on one while the snake who makes its way freely between heaven and hell closes in from every which direction.
Ω An omega sign is a gluttonous snake that swallows you whole. |
Yu-Han (Eugenia) Chao was born and grew up in Taipei, Taiwan. She received a BA from National Taiwan University and an MFA from Penn State. She edits poetry for Rose & Thorn Journal. Her poetry book, We Grow Old, was published by The Backwaters Press in 2008. To see more of her writing and artwork, please visit her website.