The chicken fence allowed the chickens
a castle
away from the dog
that lived for the hunt
and our love
for its wild heart.
The frame of a door was chewed upon
one night
by a busy rat
—a tiny goer at 1am,
high-vis spirit
pounding away,
tearing down the house and
blowing up the night
with its tiny teeth.
We set the dog on the job
and the little chippy
didn’t last the night.
The chickens none the wiser,
sleeping through the hunt.
Life. So much life:
two homes side by side
and seven housemates
and rats,
chickens,
dogs.
And the huntsman upon my arrival
—a watchman inspecting
a tenant moving in,
a lightning flash on the ceiling
spiraling down the wall,
falling in panic.
I try not to kill the smaller things these days.
Two years on,
I drove a mouse I trapped to the other side of town
and set free its little soul.
You just get older, I suppose,
and feel less sorry for yourself
but more for who you used to be
and more for mice
and spiders
and even the dog
with the rat in its mouth
—it’s complicated, I guess.
So much life.
Many houses
and many miles between.
That chicken fence: is it there
to this day?
I heard the place got pretty messy once we left.
What remains?
There’s always something
and when you return you say:
“Look, that shovel hasn’t moved.”
Or,
“Shit, no-one’s touched the tarp.”
Maybe the trees you planted
shot up
and the ghosts of the huntsman and rat,
plus arrays of the living,
gather there
under protection of things that remained
by the place where the chickens
had little lives
and a little fence
for their little castle.
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