He opened the latched door 
and the end of a life 
greeted us. I covered

my nose and still retched. 
Must be a dead mouse. 
We have to find it. 

I stretched my arms out 
in hesitant exploration. 
On my knees, bent 

at the waist, I prayed
I would not be the one
to find the body.  

My fingers spent half
an hour tracing the shape
of the paper plates

drawer, the outlined corner
of bunkbeds, the colors of 
the empty spaces between 

couch cushions. Eventually,
my glitter-tipped nails surfed
the crest of the fridge and found

a decomposed bag of potatoes
from last summer. I cried 
out in relief, happy that I had  

found a kind of rotten 
I was not afraid to hold. 

Sadie Shuck Hinkel is a poet and teacher from the Midwest. Her work has been featured in Yes Poetry, Barren Magazine, The Manhattanville Review, and others. She lives with her husband Skyler and her cat Charlie.