05-30-2013, 05:20 PM
( I would like to note in advance that the author requested this, please do not scold me at this time)
I would probably /start/ the revision process like this:
Rats
We shook their dried up shit pebbles
from a fake Christmas tree each year.
When one got in my room I became
obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline -
a phantom gliding across the floor.
He hopped onto my desk, scavenging
the crumbs that fell from my mouth,
lured by the smell of fast food wrappers.
I caught him
in a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave.
Fighting fear, I sprang from my bed and sealed
him in. I heard the frantic scratching
of his gripless claws as I carried
him imprisoned out and left him on the lawn.
When I heard
that they could find their ways
back home, every tick became
a claw-scritch, every whisper
was the soundless brush of whiskers’
gentle wisp along the walls. I followed
the dusty carpet’s frayed edge
looking for the grey grease trails that mice might leave.
When I went
to get my oil changed, they found shit
and ripped up fabric used as nesting jammed
up in my air filter. Every breath I took was poisoned.
There came a point when every crick or creak
and every settling squeak was evidence
of rodent swarms behind the walls.
I imagined whole cities of them. Nests and nests
and each nest containing just one male amidst a brood
of females. If I spied loose wires I would see their hairless
tails. I smeared fresh traps thick
with peanut butter and wore gloves
to hide my scent. My fingers trembled
as I set each one.
The first one took an hour.
I palmed it carefully and placed it
against my bedroom wall.
We only caught mice in the attic,
dead and stiff.
Once, I saw one die. Watching T. V.
with my father I was distracted by a rustling
from the attic. I saw a mouse there,
writhing, pregnant, fighting her broken spine.
New life brewed like a grotesque
goiter in her belly. Panic gripped me
as my father cracked the creature’s skull
with a flashlight. We didn’t talk
about this mouse. I knew
the tears would spill.
I would probably /start/ the revision process like this:
Rats
We shook their dried up shit pebbles
from a fake Christmas tree each year.
When one got in my room I became
obsessed with them. At first I saw his outline -
a phantom gliding across the floor.
He hopped onto my desk, scavenging
the crumbs that fell from my mouth,
lured by the smell of fast food wrappers.
I caught him
in a printer when he crawled into the plastic cave.
Fighting fear, I sprang from my bed and sealed
him in. I heard the frantic scratching
of his gripless claws as I carried
him imprisoned out and left him on the lawn.
When I heard
that they could find their ways
back home, every tick became
a claw-scritch, every whisper
was the soundless brush of whiskers’
gentle wisp along the walls. I followed
the dusty carpet’s frayed edge
looking for the grey grease trails that mice might leave.
When I went
to get my oil changed, they found shit
and ripped up fabric used as nesting jammed
up in my air filter. Every breath I took was poisoned.
There came a point when every crick or creak
and every settling squeak was evidence
of rodent swarms behind the walls.
I imagined whole cities of them. Nests and nests
and each nest containing just one male amidst a brood
of females. If I spied loose wires I would see their hairless
tails. I smeared fresh traps thick
with peanut butter and wore gloves
to hide my scent. My fingers trembled
as I set each one.
The first one took an hour.
I palmed it carefully and placed it
against my bedroom wall.
We only caught mice in the attic,
dead and stiff.
Once, I saw one die. Watching T. V.
with my father I was distracted by a rustling
from the attic. I saw a mouse there,
writhing, pregnant, fighting her broken spine.
New life brewed like a grotesque
goiter in her belly. Panic gripped me
as my father cracked the creature’s skull
with a flashlight. We didn’t talk
about this mouse. I knew
the tears would spill.