Poetry

Leon Trainor: To the Last

     To the Last In the country we kill a lot. It must be done, nobody else will do it for us. Souls who dwell city-safe never give it thought. Take captive rats: ten beady eyes fasten on us, watching to see what we’ll do, until we drop their trap in a water bucket. This bountiful autumn we caught thirty-two, a mere iceberg-tip. Another trap, hauled from a dam, writhing with contorted eels; what’s the first thing we do? Pin down their heads, chop them all off and feed them to the cockerels (one day we’ll cut off their heads…

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