The Glassmouse

Living with the small creature that checks every ledge.

Mine is the glassmouse,
sugar-small, clear-backed,
with a spine of cracked light
and a tail thin as a missed call.

It lives on shelves and windowsills,
in the bright places where things can break politely.
It drinks from the vase of my composure,
leaves little tooth marks in the stem.

When I carry good news, it trembles.
When I love something, it starts measuring the floor.
When I set a hope down anywhere,
it tests the edge with both front paws.

It is not loud.
That is its trick.
No siren. No claws.
Just a soft, constant study
of how easily beauty can fall.

I tried hiding fragile things from it.
It learned the shape of empty space.
I tried calling it silly.
It sat inside the word
until the joke turned careful.

So I lift it from the ledge
and place it in the middle of my palm.

“What are you guarding?” I ask.
Its ribs flicker.
The moment after joy, it says.
The sound the room makes when it changes.
The shard. The silence. The sweep.

“What do you need?”

A place where breaking is not the end of the story.
A hand that does not flinch from fragments.
A name that is less sharp than ruin.

I call it Fragile.
A truer name: After.
The smallest name it accepts: Care.

“Terms,” I say.
“You may remind me that glass breaks.
You may not make me live in bubble wrap.
You may watch the shelf.
I will still fill the room.”

It blinks, once.
A tiny window catching dusk.
Then it curls against my lifeline,
warm now, not cold,
as if fear had only ever wanted
a better job description.

So we walk through the house together.
I pour water into thin-necked things.
I open curtains.
I buy flowers anyway.

The glassmouse rides quietly in my pocket,
listening for disaster,
finding none it can prove,
while all around us
the breakable world keeps shining.