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