Summer 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1951 |

The Mink

The mink, such a helpless, overgrown caterpillar When quiet and waiting, becomes a torment, A wily rodent, bent on serious search. The mink in its brown coat caught chickens by the throat And sucked their blood from each white vein. The chickens, stupid and waddling, devoid of hands, Had no way to defend themselves from this marauder, But put up their bills to cut-cut-cudawkit And found their song interrupted, abruptly. In fact, their strength left them, a delightful Weakness crept toward the heart of these birds And that modern and famed Oblivion followed. Oh the fat and blood-filled mink (Who must also live, or so he figured) Was caught the next night in a netted cage And laid in the electric light for the view of all. No shame was his, he writhed and dove at escape Or lay, hot and waiting, scorning, scorning. No smile had he for us, who presently drowned him, Threw the cage in the harbor and drank his writhing Next morning with our coffee, some taking cream, And some complete

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