sometimes we smelled
skunk musk through the vents.
other times, we inhaled
the skunk itself,
dead below the floorboards,
rotting scent sifting
through the kitchen.
there was a mouse who raced
to hide behind the fridge.
my aunt caught it in a tupperware,
returning it to the summer soft grass
where she would later bury
her two old dogs.
today, there’s a skunk smell in the kitchen
where my grandmother is eating breakfast,
holding her piece of bread and red jam
with bird claw fingers while
she asks me if i live here. i tell her
no. she stares a moment, then
forgets the conversation, returning
to her piece of toast and egg.
Jessica Armstrong is a writer living in Morristown, Tennessee. She enjoys writing fiction and creative nonfiction, but easily loses patience editing long works. She prefers poetry because it fits on one page.