The Star-Nosed Mole

I took the star-nosed mole to show-and-tell.

Dead, tucked in a plastic sandwich baggie. 

I carried the little creature onto the bus, outside 

my backpack, to protect from further crushing—

this individual casualty to one of our cats. 

Some people say the complex eye is proof of God. 

The eyes of a mole can hardly see. A star-nose

has twenty-two sensitive appendages. I held

the bag high, arm extended, passed it around.

Did you know, star-nosed moles can smell 

underwater? is a fact I may have proudly told.

Look at the tentacles, how a mole senses prey.

A boy in my class died the year after. 

Pneumonia, I think. Grief makes a specialist 

of everyone left alive. Some people say death 

is evidence of God’s plan. I don’t pretend 

to understand most anything. Show it. Tell it. 

What happened to the mole after the day was over, 

I don’t recall. I hope the disposal was done 

respectfully. I hope there was a return to soil. 

No tossing the pathetic egg-roll of a corpse, 

shrouded in petroleum-product, into the trash. 

What else have I perpetrated in fascination? 

At least I held the body gently, like it mattered.