Rat

By the harbor, in the walls, in the streets

flooded with sewage, in the kitchens

of the unclean: festering, scratching, clawing,

defecating, you will find me—bloated rat

biting down on the arm of pestilence.

Don’t think I'm gone—banished by the piper,

well-fed felines, or something

you call progress, to the pages of poorly

illustrated children’s tales. I am a refrain,

ever returning, like a dead body

that floats to the surface of a canal

and then exhales a death rattle.

Don’t tell me only beauty begets beauty. 

God can paint even me radiant.

***

Tamara Nicholl-Smith is a poet and workshop leader living in Houston, TX. Her poetry has appeared on two Albuquerque city bus panels, one parking meter, various radio shows, a spoken-word techno classical piano fusion album, and in publications, such as: America, Ekstasis, The Examined Life Journal, Kyoto Journal, and Joi De Vivre (forthcoming). She is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Saint Thomas (Houston). She like puns and enjoys her bourbon neat. Find her at tamaranichollsmith.com