The moon is a button made of bone

that closes the great black cloak

of winter. I move in slow motion.

I harness myself to an engine

which drags me where I have to go.

The elbows of my soul have road rash.

I am the opposite of a drag queen:

I remove makeup, tangle my hair,

and pull on plaid pajama bottoms

with ragged hems. I want snowfall

and flannel sheets. I want to curl

in the pocket of that great black cloak

with its moon-button made of bone.

I hereby resign from my lifetime

appointment as lighthouse keeper.

I am not exhausted by the storms

–or the saving–but by the watching

and waiting.

The things in the junkyard rarely wake

before noon. Sheet metal, carburetors,

car seat springs and kerosene tins. The

things in the junkyard have forgotten

you. Their memories have rusted. They don’t

apologize for disappointing you or for too

short lives. The things in the junkyard want

only for hands so they can soothe the rangy

yard dog, whose voice strains with longing

and grief. The things in the junkyard have

no ceiling. They hunker in dirt under stars

and storms. Their thin and broken bits flap

in the wind. All their light bulbs are broken.

But listen: Hear them whisper. They murmur

about that slow, big-eyed cow who, just this

moment, stares greedily over the junkyard

fence, as if her sweet grass is not enough.

Just before my marriage ended,

a student asked me to keep

her pet mouse. I couldn’t say no–

her heart and needs were so big.

We named him Martín Snowplow

after the way he burrowed through

his white bedding. He was light gray

with big black eyes and a musk

so strong, our eyes stung.

My husband stayed away til late.

I prepared lessons at my desk.

I was always cold and pulled

an oversized robe over my clothes.

Martín ran the inside of my sleeves,

tickled my neck, and nudged

his nose out my collar–until he peed

and I had to wash my clothes again.

Martín and I moved to a second floor

studio apartment with a red desk

and a window that opened on a creek.

Some nights, I’d lie on my back,

put Martín on my foot and watch him

sprint my body length: his serious,

driven, funny face growing bigger

and bigger til he reached my chin.

Mostly though, stunned by grief

and change, I never did give Martín

the freedom and attention he deserved.

In Latin, the word for muscles

is “musculous,” little mice,

for the animal-way a muscle

moves under the skin. For years,

I worked my muscles hard.

They were uncomplaining

miracles of balance and strength

–even when I didn’t feed them,

water them, understand they needed

rest. Then, that year in the studio

with the red desk that faced the creek,

those first strange happenings:

a tightening in the hip, a frozen arm

and hand, tingles that ran up and down

my limbs, like the prick of Martín’s feet.

I didn’t notice quick enough

that Martín had fleas in his fur

and a lump on his side. Two years,

that’s about as long as a mouse lives,

someone said. You gave him food

and toys and a little straw house.

You did what you could.

Better care may not have saved him;

I wish I’d cared for him better anyway.

Later, I’d learned my muscles were,

as my physical therapist explained,

disorganized. They needed to talk

to each other differently. I had to train

them–not with runs, weights, and will

–but through slow motion.

My husband and I never learned

how to talk to each other. Not that

better, slower talk would have made

a difference. Our needs were so big.

He never could give me the freedom

and attention I deserved. Still, I wish

I’d learned to listen and speak earlier.

Now my muscles, well-intentioned

mice, are lumpy and slow. Some

are mute. Some are deaf. They scrounge,

blind, for food they cannot find.

They’ve forgotten their names.

Those who can, whisper gently

to each other with the language

they have left. I massage them, give

them vitamins, slow walks, water and rest.

I treat them with the kindness I never did

when they were beautiful and young.