Mouser

On kitchen top
she dreams of blood - 

clotted blood
and how it could
be eaten.

Full moon eyes,
a churning mind - 
evolution’s sharpest blade,
my ragdoll wrath of God.

She is the koi-filled pond
designed to drown a child,
the valley of chrysanthemums
where a prison camp was built.

She is the woodland rise
whose swaying pines are teeth,
the drowsy dog-day churchyard
where all the death was dumped.

She is the busy river 
bringing bodies from upstream,
the glassy lake whose surface
is a sucking wound.

She is the mountaintop
of dead anoraks,
the icy wind
that purged the col.

She licks her paws.
She cleans her fur.
To the little things
that live outdoors
the whole landscape is her.