I cannot write for the rat gnawing
at the edges of the shed. Poison
sits beneath the sink; hasn’t found
its way into bait boxes or cut down
drainpipes to protect cats. I slay
iced cobwebs in still air of the new
year; kick gravel into the gaps,
lay the traps for a slow death.
The stench will not reach the sill
of the kitchen window; the frost
will stifle the rot; block evidence.
The scratching that remains
will be the grinding conscience
of another death in the name of art.
If you have any comments on this poem, Sonia Hendy-Isaac would like to hear from you.