Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Nicolette Stasko

under rats

under rats

under rats

( )

there was a lot to talk about
magpies for example
and how numbers go from one
to a hundred so easily
or the girl singing on the street
like an angel between licks
of gin or how yesterday a man
wearing a fake beard and

trench coat poured
cement all over our front steps
he said he was ‘taking care of business’
and winked
before walking away
with a sparkle in his step


( )

we began to be afraid of our shoes
they seemed to become more
aggressive  taking us places
we didn’t want to go
someone said to leave
them for a while
that  always fixed things
but they only became

more demanding
we had heard of a case like this
somewhere in Chechnya
finally they had no choice
but to line them up and shoot
blindfolds were unnecessary



( )

the burghers of the town
wrapped in squirrel and fox
were served my heart on a plate
while seated at table
on a canal of ice 
their silver forks glistened
it had been well cooked
and they enjoyed it

smacking their lips
grooming their beards
with tortoise-shell combs
talking of the old days
for hours on end having forgotten
to sharpen their skates


( )

he came to visit with his fiancée
we looked for the apple
in his eye but found none
only a moustache
that drooped to his knees
he told us about his time
at the Jardin des Plantes
where he worked with leopards

he had a thick hairy chest
and all the apes fell in love with him
in spite of his protestations
we offered him
fresh-brewed cider
to try to make up for it


( )

I went into a café
at the Literaturhaus in Munich
where they wanted my coat
I saw my name
on a plate  then realised
the table napkins had an ode
that I had written and the placemat a
sonnet to my beloved

I could not eat
the veal schnitzel they put
in front of me
my mouth would not close and
I feared my teeth
might fall out


( )

our mother is hardly
a braid of smoke  black
or otherwise but comes as ashes
real and covering us
while we lie in bed
or walk to the supermarket
she seems to be saying
Don’t forget me…

we brush our shoulders
as if we had dandruff
one of us shouts to the sky
‘leave us alone
can’t you see how hard it is?’
the ashes keep falling more heavily
Close

under rats

( )

there was a lot to talk about
magpies for example
and how numbers go from one
to a hundred so easily
or the girl singing on the street
like an angel between licks
of gin or how yesterday a man
wearing a fake beard and

trench coat poured
cement all over our front steps
he said he was ‘taking care of business’
and winked
before walking away
with a sparkle in his step


( )

we began to be afraid of our shoes
they seemed to become more
aggressive  taking us places
we didn’t want to go
someone said to leave
them for a while
that  always fixed things
but they only became

more demanding
we had heard of a case like this
somewhere in Chechnya
finally they had no choice
but to line them up and shoot
blindfolds were unnecessary



( )

the burghers of the town
wrapped in squirrel and fox
were served my heart on a plate
while seated at table
on a canal of ice 
their silver forks glistened
it had been well cooked
and they enjoyed it

smacking their lips
grooming their beards
with tortoise-shell combs
talking of the old days
for hours on end having forgotten
to sharpen their skates


( )

he came to visit with his fiancée
we looked for the apple
in his eye but found none
only a moustache
that drooped to his knees
he told us about his time
at the Jardin des Plantes
where he worked with leopards

he had a thick hairy chest
and all the apes fell in love with him
in spite of his protestations
we offered him
fresh-brewed cider
to try to make up for it


( )

I went into a café
at the Literaturhaus in Munich
where they wanted my coat
I saw my name
on a plate  then realised
the table napkins had an ode
that I had written and the placemat a
sonnet to my beloved

I could not eat
the veal schnitzel they put
in front of me
my mouth would not close and
I feared my teeth
might fall out


( )

our mother is hardly
a braid of smoke  black
or otherwise but comes as ashes
real and covering us
while we lie in bed
or walk to the supermarket
she seems to be saying
Don’t forget me…

we brush our shoulders
as if we had dandruff
one of us shouts to the sky
‘leave us alone
can’t you see how hard it is?’
the ashes keep falling more heavily

under rats

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère