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.<br /><br />Naomi Shihab Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hello-82/
