Leveler Poetry Journal
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This is a Rat Trap

 

You’re dead,

 

but not quite dead yet,

 

skittering around

 

with crushed legs, in blood.

 

The shrieking doesn’t bother me so much

 

as the bucket of water in the pool

of the tub.

 

The energy of something live

between my hands, then dead.

 

Drying them on a napkin,

bleaching the blood, scraping

 

at the crusty parts later,

the ones I missed.

 

I boiled you until you began to smell swollen.

 

The serving

will feel like drowning in sand.

I know.

 

My stomach is filled with the fat of you.

 

Be aware:

 

there are children sat at the table.

 

Reach up

into their            mouths and speak something

   they’ll remember as bloody

 

but tinged with a rare lard.




Meg McKeon