1 poem
by Peach Kander
Peach Kander is a queer poet and current MFA candidate in Poetry at NYU living. Current projects include an (auto)biography set in a dystopian North Pole and a translation of Georges Hugnet's 'Childhoods.' Lately, they’ve been going to karaoke to sing classic pop songs in the style of Bob Dylan. Poems are forthcoming in Fugue and dirt child, vol. 1, and other creative property can be found in the Sephora archives.
This poem was shortlisted for the 2019 Peach Gold in Poetry with guest judge Dorothea Lasky.
love is / a rat
You could be on the toilet scrolling through
the apps like a catalogue, the humans
staged in the photos as stand ins for
brand, disposition. After sneaking its
way through the plumbing like it’s the loop de
loop on top of your childhood hamster’s
cage it pops out, through your detritus
escaping from the porcelain vessel.
You’re horrified, though not entirely
surprised, as this is a phenomenon
you’ve read about, too much even perhaps
such is your lack of shock. Think of other
peoples’ stories, like your friend who was
on the subway platform glancing sideways
/
A rat, its obsidian beads, met her
gaze and charged. They say there are ones in parks
as big as possums, toddlers. An off smell
around the station, for in this quest to
eradicate or control the rat, they’re
willing to take us all out. Like if we live
at all we can live without them. I’ve had rats
in my walls, scratching back and forth to each
other when we couldn’t sleep. Boxes poisoned
and baited on almost every corner
every stoop, outside the deli
full of cats, to stop what will be here
even after we all leave, running
a rat along the third rail, unabashed