By Christopher Tang
My dad killed a rat today.
Made him into a sandwich,
a jerked piece of meat that
pulled against the glue trap
as my brother and I cooked
from the kitchen window.
It had to be done, they said,
in the end. We can’t have it
running across our vegetables.
And this is true. We must
preserve our dinner table and
its clean memory. A family garden
can only have pure intentions.
But what about him? I think of
the way he would’ve gnawed
at his own feet to escape. No
animal struggles when they
want to sleep. To give up
is to be unnatural. He died
behind my house, but I’m
still here, aren’t I? In a way,
he left me behind. My brother
asks if I’m over it and I lie.
Christopher Tang is a Writing MA student at Warwick university, where he also writes for The Tab and was appointed Editor-in-Chief at The Tab Warwick. Specialising in poetry/non-fiction, he intends to pursue art and entertainment journalism in the future, and later publish his own debut poetry collection.
Hot Pot Magazine 