Mask of the Mouse 

skritch, skritch, scriek     ready to know you or gnaw you    my darling

mice teeth bite into bait bowls     unremitting     I turn on music to drown out 

the percussive effect     crawling    beneath the pipes of my mind

an invasion     field at the end of the block     torn up to make townhouses   

they try to survive     yes, I do know     but, the teeth, the sound

that insatiable desire     as if they can never be filled     are they starving or is it me 

when their eyes meet mine     they tremble like aspen leaves     show underbellies

then, the dash     behind refrigerator, couch    underneath my rocking chair 

furtive as gods     they masturbate the house     leave traces everywhere

may blood shriek through flesh     feed them a repast     they cannot refuse 

Broken Piano 

Lift up the fall, observe the keys.  Can you tell if the piano's off tune.  You're in a bar, someone smiles, pays for your drink. If the low keys drone, the high ones shriek.  He's wearing dockers, a nice sweater.  You say hello and strut your stuff, he's whistling a line of sweet notes. Or maybe the piano's gone bad in the teeth, doesn't play at all.  He takes you home, you're on the sofa, he unhooks your bra.  You look up, realize his eyes are saying nothing.  The whites are imitation ivory, the pupils, hammer heads.  You prayed for a date.  He played for your drink.  Who knew about the cracked soundboard, the rust, the serial pedals of delusion.  The pianoman is looking at your breast.   His mouth hangs on his face, a thin broken wire.  

Dementiaed Door 

June bugs skulk on the screen door. Crazy as.  That family in the attic.    Lobsters.  Stealing our stuff.  Throw them out.  Father sticks his fingers in the butter dish, licks them.  Leaving the table, he rattles the back door.  Where am I.   

Can't get his teeth into his mouth, shoves them under the mattress.  Another stroke.  Can't raise from the bed.  Nursing home.  Bring me a gun.   

No.  No, I can't.  His fingers become doors, cover his eyes.  I slip out, loose doorknob falling.   

A woman walks down the hall, picks up imaginary lint from the floor.  In a wheelchair, an old man rocks.  His hands hover like wasps.  Who are you.   Do I know you.  Hold my stingers.  

Women huddling by the tv twitch.  A filled sheepfold.  Once, on the farm, my sister and brother put a stocking cap over a lamb's face.  It stood still for a moment, then made a beeline toward the haymow.  No, little lamby, come back.  A loud crack, its head hit wood.  When they took the cap off, the lamb staggered, ran away.   

I want to run away, too.  Father, unaware, tries to French kiss me.  My door is cold, he bleats.

Bio: Margaret Walther is a retired librarian from the Denver metro area and a past president of Columbine Poets, an organization to promote poetry in Colorado.  She has poems published or forthcoming in many journals, including Connecticut Review, anderbo.com, Ghoti, Quarterly West, Naugatuck River Review, Chickenpinata, Willow Review and Nimrod. She won the Many Mountains Moving 2009 Poetry Contest.