Some nights br the rat with pointed teeth br makes his long way back br to the bowl of peaches. br He stands on the dining room table br sinking his tooth br drinking the pulp br of each fruity turned-up face br knowing you will read br this message and scream. br It is his only text, br to take and take in darkness, br to be gone before you awaken br and your giant feet br start creaking the floor. br br Where is the mother of the rat? br The father, the shredded nest, br which breath were we taking br when the rat was born, br when he lifted his shivering snout br to rafter and rivet and stone? br I gave him the names of the devil, br seared and screeching names, br I would not enter those rooms br without a stick to guide me, br I leaned on the light, shuddering, br and the moist earth under the house, br the trailing tails of clouds, br said he was in the closet, br the drawer of candles, br his nose was a wick. br br How would we live together br with our sad shoes and hideouts, br our lock on the door br and his delicate fingered paws br that could clutch and grip, br his blank slate of fur br and the pillow where we press our faces? br The bed that was a boat is sinking. br And the shores of morning loom up br lined with little shadows, br things we never wanted to be, or meet, br and all the rats are waving hello.