Elise Powers

SKY RATS

We carried them in our hands—

tied letters of love and war

to their paper pink ankles.

They don’t know

they’re unwanted,

that they’ve become

iridescent burdens burrowed

in gutters we’ve lined with spikes

just for them.

They bob their heads,

coo at the feet that kick them away,

doing only as we taught them:

return.

And isn’t that the way of things?

The heart loves to outlive its welcome,

to circle the place it was last fed,

to make a meal out of crumbs.

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