The Rat’s Meal

By: Stella Martin

Because you live, you feast 
on trash and shit. You huff 
shallow, little hexes 
into the sweet, black space 
and no one knows you wait. 
You dream towers of wheat, 
the white days, the damp warmth 
of one trillion kinsmen, 
the ripe smell of metal, 
conquest, and rot. Seeker 
of silence, survival 
is rancid, stuck inside 
your ancient gums. You sink 
into the soft wet left 
behind your maker’s teeth.