Rat I cannot write for the rat gnawing at the edges of the shed. Poison sits beneath the sink; hasn’t found its way into bait boxes or cut down drainpipes to protect cats.  I slay iced cobwebs in still air of the new year; kick gravel into the gaps, lay the traps for a slow death. The stench will not reach the sill of the kitchen window; the frost will stifle the rot; block evidence. The scratching that remains will be the grinding conscience of another death in the name of art. Sonia Hendy-Isaac If you have any comments on this poem, Sonia Hendy-Isaac would like to hear from you.