The Twenty-First of March
by Tracy Kirk


    It's just that kind of day,
    the kind where the poison takes hold
    and the giant rat finally emerges from her nest in the sofa,
    that kind of day when you realize that, of course, her brood
    is what's been eating at your
    toes as you tossed by the fire,
    little nails scratching the hardwood of your dream,
    why your dog has become a coward,
    whimpering, shivering, curling next to you;
    they've caused the smell you've gotten used to,
    scurry out the corner of your eye
    as you turn the corner, of course.
    Tonight you'll hear the jingle of chimes on the porch,
    the screendoor banging in the breeze,
    each clap signifying another
    of her offspring taking to the field.






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