M. R. PEACOCKE, poet




To be weasel: to stain grasses
with jets of musk; to thieve,
hobnob and bicker in winter sun,
hard fur packed between toes
and buckwheat pads of the foot;
to dance in bristling ellipses
intent upon a vein. Dying,
to scream in the cat’s mouth twice.

The small corpse disgraced with blood
grew dull and stiffly crescent,
its almond head split wide, fixed
in the impetus of rage, its reek
on my bald huge hands.
I dug a hole, along with the dead thing
tossed in certain human perplexities,
and in the kitchen set down milk.

                        (from Selves)


© M.R.Peacocke 2010