Glue Trap My heart looks like the old yellow house where thin, mouse-bitten walls separated our part of the basement from another Chinese family. We could hear their daughter practice tongue twisters, they could hear my mother scream when I went too far in my careless teenage obstinacy. She came home one day with a pink plastic bag of glue traps for the mice who tormented the strings in my piano and chewed holes in their rice sacks. I could hear it chirp, the first one caught in the entrance hall between our two chambers, as the adults circled it. My mother slipped back inside after convening with the other parents, told me the father would get rid of it. Squeaks crescendoed when the sheet of glue started to travel — the father lifting it, hands close enough for the mouse to smell, walking it outside where beneath a smoky moon I heard him bring down the hammerhead. Or rather I couldn’t hear any more chittering. I rewound and tried to count the heartbeats between squeak and silence, the jammy crush of fur and skull. I’ve been having these moments more and more: time feels like a rotten tooth and my body sinks into its wormy cavity. I’ve hauled myself through this life on delusion alone, sidestepping puddles while I wore rainboots. Taught myself how to love from imitation. And I can’t deny every time someone tells, confesses, intimates, that they love me, I feel a deep grief ripple out from inside me — the dearths left by mice with broken heads and songs unfinished.