Rattus Rattus in the Last Days of the Black Plague: A Memoir
for Stacia
Me mum, she taught me
how to scope a home,
climb its walls and scrunch
beneath the door frame.
She taught me to laugh.
~~~
Once a man screeched
when I crawled below his door.
His wife plucked me tail,
tossed me to her kitty.
It pounced then leapt away.
I was amused, and amused more
when the kitty later lay prone,
then the wife died and the husband
and children, but not me fleas.
I rolled on them bodies and laughed.
~~~
Me mum, she failed to learn me
about lands beyond our city block,
so I jumped in a sailor’s breast pocket
and off we ventured to sea. He grew ill.
I met some white rats and we laughed.
On deck, we heard whales sing
so high pitched it bled me ears
until they leapt from sea spouting
from their blowholes me fleas.
It was sad to hear them drown, me fleas.
~~~
Me enduring, sweet fleas, they all decayed,
dust, like me mum and all the mums,
and now people are opening doors, unafraid.
I do not like this one gnaw. I do not like
how they smile, they laugh, they joy.
I do not like how this will conclude, for me.
For twenty-two years, Tom Holmes was the founding editor and curator of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics. The final issue is due out in the summer of 2024. ☹ He is an Ace writer, who teaches at Nashville State Community College (Clarksville). Blog, The Line Break: thelinebreak.wordpress.com/. Twitter: @TheLineBreak