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The Year of the Rat
bu-bon-ic plague: a contagious disease characterized
by buboes, fever, and delirium
for days sirens hurl winding shrieks
bubble lights flashing red yellow red
yellow white linen
sheets no, drapery
rises and settles on
the feet no, the
hands are pulling it
back again “can you
hear us” they say and
scurry on down the shaolin passageways
the tunnels, or catacombs she lies in
stretch 105 mercury degree rising measure
quicksilver following break
cascading and soaring
could have reached 108
no one knows
faces, fingers, reappear
pumping machinery
struggling writhing throughout stomach, throat,
eyebrows knitted, pursing lips
blood-drained pallor cheeks they
push and force
tug and pull away plastics
snapping eyes, heels part
fading far farther
white the tunnels open wide
haunting dark red caverns tiny
obsidian chip eyes peeking through
the watchers those without fear of man
I can only spectate as
she slips into recall
dancers on toe chaotic climax
extremities held in tight circles
bent elbow, dainty toes, black-gray claws
ears slicked back like
a scorned, angered mare
whiskers gleam, tails streaming along to
the dance the dance
the Mardi Gras
the Coup d’état
the Marathon
They Shoot Horses Don’t They?
their bodies wrapped in fur as if they
should be dressed, primped, combed
frenzy filled they touch lightly almost
a ballet, or tap, no, free
dance they are free
from restraints
from being minor mammal
suddenly they huddle
gangly approach to center
like a sneak-up dance
exchanging excitement
they plan, this is no instinct,
they prepare, premeditate
mutinous recapture of the den
those tunnels outside, they
were not built by hares the
urine odor was not left by infants
dancers left this trace
to forewarn intruders
a single mother, newborn, and infant,
move in escaping her pistol-wielding spouse
lucky to be alive she tells herself
paying the burly biker landlord
every dollar she saved
for their escape, battered, bruised,
splintered dreams, she cradles both
babies climbing into the green
hand-painted slat board crib
nurses one gives a cracker
to the other
marching onto the so-called shelter
they appear through every
hole in ceiling, wall, and floor
a double dozen, or more,
they make their way into
the rooms leaping with ease
their foot and foot and a half
from nose to tip of tail lengths
lumbering onto shelves,
formica counters, the one antique
dresser riddled with wormholes,
teeth gnaw continuously turning
solid matter to Swiss cheese in the
den, the sheetmetal mobile home
the mother covers the sleeping
innocents she clutches an empty 2-liter glass
Coke bottle in the right hand
and iron claw hammer with rough, splintered
wooden handle in the left she
tells the pack, the herd, the congregation
these are her children
she says this with her eyes
she wedges herself into the corner of the crib
staying guard through
weary length of night, she
swings on occasion when
one ventures close—range
hoping to take a finger as
the lost child from Birdtown lost toes
to these years ago gnawing, growing
teeth in hopes of taking
the taste of milk
from sleeping baby lips
she connects at least twice each night
she never sleeps
the nightmares allow the rulers victory
dragging bones, her children’s, from their teeth
like game trophies to be hung below floors
she dozes midday in the
car with no gas and no floorboard
her babies tied to her
she never sets them down
“They are like tigers” her
dad told her “never corner them,
they become as panthers
as Bengals” he told her long ago
she wishes he had a
phone or that she had one
to get a message to him
that he was right that they
are here to prey on the
living, larger mammals man
she remembers her mother’s screams
at walls and stove ventilation
raving conversation with tormentors
no one else could see
and leaving at thirteen
her brother pounding her face
with fists and pool balls
his favorite hobby
her father hard at work every day
as if he could work away the madness
her sister fleeing six weeks before
packing one suitcase as if it were an overnight
remembering the way she said
“when they dance, they have it”
she knows this true firsthand,
she observes performance
the ritual
it terrifies her
the dance, the dance, bounding, leaping closer
here. she defends the trench of trailer,
the foxhole crib they lie in
while the rulers plan strategies
and taunt her
amazed at their aggressiveness
she wishes for a gun,
or knife, a better implement
to fight with during this
night they are especially
close the light, that one
single line, precise between earth
and sky both pitch
that clear blue white line appears
to break day, crows caw
outside the owls make roosting sounds
the watchers chew and twitch before
jumping to floor, scattering
to holes and scampering out of light
into the ground tunnels
into the underground
the den beneath this floor
like vampires retiring to mausoleums
to choreograph the “ring around the rosy”
for the new dusk to come
den of daytime
they sink into tunnels
like bats in daylight
with the same ammonia-filled stench
the young mother
closes her eyelids momentarily
only to seal them slightly
the pull so taut
black rings below she
slides over the crib railing
releasing bottle and club no,
hammer she thought it
a club wish splitting manifestation
she changes babies and feeds
them all she can
then bundles them
and ties them to herself
her sister once called her a pack-mule
babies cling like koala bear clip-ons
they know nothing of the danger
she raises them from
she wraps a big
towel around the three of them
covering her shoulders
with a faded car coat
they leave the
den leave the lights on
repelling rodents
in their absence
they walk
the small mother
carrying the full
load of three
kicking stones
along the way
remembering days before
days of war on homefronts
racing from attacks
knowing that for her
there is nowhere safe to run
a single brown sedan
flies by them on the long
stretch of highway
they amble alongside of
between steps they sigh
the gravel thickens
as they reach the country store
the wooden ramp under her feet
they enter
making way to shelving, hunting
hardware, holding careful watch
they locate traps
twelve inches long
she lifts four and then
four again,
lays eight on counter
she pleads for credit writing
promise on colored paper
the owner looks at her
at the traps
looks at her again
double-take
spine erect
she loads courage
in her eyes agreement
reached, she raises the bag
he dropped them into
retrieving items to count
eight she works up a pressed
curve of lip into slight smile
they
return, armed
the babies know nothing she thinks
and tells herself
she’s doing all she
can to take care of them and at
least their father can’t kill her now
she is bigger than these dancers
these new adversaries these
barons of the earth almost
as ancient as the roach though
twice as evil
she imagines them
tremendous dragons
and plans masquerading carnival
invitational trap once
again inside the den
mobile home
the trailer is decorated in Early American cardboard
she never unpacked on seeing the rats
the tiny woman gathers boxes, these boxes
she sets in appropriate positions,
vantage points, they secure
at night they place scoops
of commod peanut butter and oil
on the trap’s triggers and pulls
back the springs tucking in
tongue catch, setting force, she lays
them ever so gently deep inside
corrugated cubes
ripping newspaper
hoarded in her car trunk
to shreds
she gently, ever so
gently lets the shreds and strips
fall like crumbs of snow from her fingers
filling entirely the space above
the bottom, center-squared sharply pulling
back her hand to let them
“lie in peace”
masquerading as nesting
materials for those who come
at night for their underworld
home below her feet
and the crib’s
legs
the sky outside casts
over deepest gray, telltale coal
clouds surround the meadows out
in the open
lightning time
begins
the strikes stab sky
bolting toward the metal walls
and roof she quickly places the
babies into high chairs the chairs’ legs
safely set into eight decaying
sneakers four under each chair
the pots and pans
on the steel stove top
dance from surges
untamed electricity
lights the burners
all four knobs read OFF
over orange-red coils bouncing cookware
the dead motor
in the air conditioner
buzzes, jars and tries to turn over
though when she turned it ON
herself this strain never occurred
light bulbs hanging exposed from the ceiling
glow brighter with each lightning stroke
charges ignite and leap at times from sockets
the rubber soles of old
shoes protecting babies barely
she has done this before
stranded during storms in previous escapes
her husband always found her
as if his sonar hits
were more direct than lightning
the baby caught in everything
then there was one, now there are two
the three a family
by blood and flesh
clap and crash thunder pounds
sheet walls shimmy
vibrating from pressure and forces living, ruling
eventually the rains join the streaks
and dance in electrical fallout
the drops and sparks fire and
water
she sweeps the floor
watching the window the black dung
pellets left overnight flying out the
doorway day passes like all the
rest this year the dancers will
spin years of dreams night terrors
dark cyclones filled with black eyes
scraping, gnawing, teeth but
that is far into the future
she is here in the now
shadows skip sundial night
falls as a shade
night shade
night watch
the dancers clamber
out of chambers onto the
porch out of the sliding glass
doors she carries the babies
to the bright green crib and
lulls them to sleep
Indian songs she sings
she cradles them
in her arms until the slumber
is sufficient to last the night
time she takes the bottle that
glass 2-liter in her right
and the iron claw hammer
in her left and makes ready
she catches the dancers bounding
so elegantly, so gracefully
she catches sight
and smell of the
dancers
they watch her as
well creeping closer together
they huddle tails entwined
they scheme, slink away,
file into formations
taking the walls
floors and ceiling by storm
combative stances
they laugh her off
through the night she connects
a few again though they relish
their glory as kings she
nothing but a damsel
the largest dancer
a gift from Europeans
a giant from Norway—the
King he is a tyrant and always
taunting her this time they
get bored in this game and leap
showing off their egos inflated
they bound into boxes to
play with shredded stuffing and
quench the desire for
government-issue
peanut butter
trigger snaps
tongue catch and springs f l y
sending steel over
backs and bones and
fur four times then
rear lines follow four
more snaps the others
have no heart for fallen fellows
and continue the taunting closeness
edging toward her babies
dodging glass and hammer claw
the game so merrily played
throughout the hours in this
night in the long
month of September this
time she feels some sort of
security
when crack-light
dawn breaks the still sky
the survivors retreat she
lifts the first box the
rodent’s dead weight
makes her sick
even though she
cannot see it through the
shredded papers still filling
space covering the body
weight and smell fill her
with fear that it will jump
toward her sight unseen
and lay its fangs into her
skin she casts the box
at least twenty feet out
the door
she slowly walks
over to inspect its contents
the cadaver lies back broken
twelve or more inches long
she wants to throw up but
has no time all the others
sail out into the meadow
because each time she feels
their dead weight her arms
uncontrollably fling boxes
one by one until
eight are spread
hours later she recovers
the shock initial
and begins releasing traps to reset
peanut butter surprise
she washes her hands and
arms for forty minutes
straight before caring for
the children, for the day
the children know nothing, they’re so
innocent, they don’t know anything
it is so still, the wind drifting stench
is the only movement the sky
remains dark, blackest black
gray-tipped lining cloud
boxes, traps, shreds
boxes, traps, shreds
boxes traps, shreds
she commits to the order
front line in corrugated mine field
snap, spring, dancers fall
the flank moves forward
the landlord comes one day
when he arrives she cries to
him begging for abatement
rent on the den he laughs
her off his ears look like
the king’s—pointed she steals
serial number from his
work truck to garnish his
wages in court she will sue
she says he backhands
her just as her husband did
so many times before she
left him in June paid the
rent three month’s advance
to this wannabee slumlord
single dwelling dictator
this leech of land-
lord-ing now the winter is
approaching fast the babies notice
and cry they notice
they are aware
time is running out
the owner of the store
is surprised to see her
he agrees to take her to town to file
small claims court in a few weeks
the landlord tells the judge
that the reason the rats came
was because of her housekeeping
“No. They were already here.”
she says showing pictures of rats in
traps she drew to scale
the babies crawl around the
courtroom the people stare
and shake their heads they judge,
they convict, they send her to
jail in their minds “You Honor,
it’s the truth” she says and he
allows her to reclaim one hundred dollars
suggesting she “look better
next time you rent” her shoulders
rise and tighten, lips part
salted words dissolve on her tongue
the babies scamper around
till they locate her legs
and climb
up to be held tight.
a singer she knows tells her about
a basement apartment,
fixer-up rental they collapse
into it smells sweet they eat and
sleep night passing something
scratches and runs in the
false ceiling she sees black
eyes in her mind she hits
the white, dusty panels
and a possum falls
almost into her arms
she screams, then laughs hysterically
they get a cat, a real mouser
the feline patrols every night
protecting the babies
they sleep on a mattress
no longer in a crib
there are no shadows
from slats on their faces babies
turn into tots and play
she writes songs
gathering random chords
prays to be left alone
and prays not to be lonesome
she falls to sleep writing and smiling
at her children
she dreams
she is in the tunnels of the
rulers former terrorists who
was the tenant? this question
in dreamscape
her body becomes ridden with pain
sickness so strong
fever shoots so high
nothing can bring it down
five days have passed
amnesia, the sickness reels, she tries to cry
but her lips won’t work
she lies in her own vomit
her hand reaches out with effort
to the silhouette of the younger child
she contacts dry parched skin like old
paper paper-thin leather, fragile gray
her skin is also gray she
can see it the older child
across her feet both children out
cold dying or already gone
she cannot move
darkness, quiet silence, death is coming
she smells it and turns away
to turn, to f a l l
to fall to the floor she crawls
like the babies to the wall she
cannot reach the phone
she pushes open the door and falls
out into the cold
the fierce cold of this winter
her fever melts the snow next to
her gray, gray skin schoolchildren
stumble across her body and run
for help down the dirt road
they scurry
their mother lifts her into their
wagon station wagon they lay
her babies beside her in the back
Is this a hearse?
the clinic doctor will not
allow them within doors “No way
they are gray, look at them.”
He covers his mouth and face with enormous hands
the strangers drive a hour to a
Public Health Service Hospital
and leave the three behind as they
hurry home for supper
the tiniest on saline intravenous
once he can speak
the biggest child tells the story
of the last five days
he fed the baby while his mother
lay dying “I thought she would
died” he says explaining that after the third day
he couldn’t feed the baby and crawled in with
her he saw the baby crawl in the fourth day
“I think it was yesterday, dunno”
in another room she is told “They will make it,
you didn’t lose your children.”
“Can you hear us? ”
the tunnels close
in around her the glass beads
black, those eyes like size
ten seed beads glassy, shiny
they watch her, they rule
I
have witnessed all of this from
far above this
plague-ridden room floating
around I feel free enough to
dance
I
look back at she
once I suppose was me
too difficult I decide
and watch a little longer I slip in above
the babies
I know they need her to come back
delirious she yells “What’s the cover routine? ”
those hands slip a needle
to vein she jerks I jerk
with her and reclaim the body
while the mind encounters steely eyes
dancers
plague dreams, reality
leaping, flying, scampering
gnawing innocents
good healthy bodies
tearing away the escape of a lifetime
those tunnels full to brim
rodents racing through time
through this year the fever
falls
chills rise my skin
bead goose bumps, my mind
is clearing “Are the dancers gone?
Are the babies okeh? ” Hands and
faces embody nurses, doctors
“Have you had any recent contact
with any small animals? ” they ask
recall dancers on toe chaotic climax frenzy
they dance the dance they dance
Copyright 1992 Allison Hedge Coke 1997 Coffee House Press in Dog Road Woman.
1st Reprint in 'Visit TeePee Town.'
Allison Hedge Coke
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, August 06, 2008 |
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, January 23, 2009 |
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Poets
