‭For the Poet Who Told Me Rats Aren’t Noble Enough Creatures for a Poem‬

‭OR‬
‭“Rat Ode”‬
‭By Elizabeth Acevedo‬

‭ ecause you are not the admired nightingale.‬

B ‭ ecause even though you are an inelegant, simple,‬
‭Because you are not the noble doe.‬
‭Because you are not the picturesque‬
‭ermine, armadillo, or bat.‬
‭They have been written, and I don't know their song‬
‭the way I know your scuttling between walls.‬
‭The scent of your collapsed corpse rotting‬
‭beneath floorboards. Your frantic squeals‬
‭as you pull at your own fur from glue traps,‬
‭ripping flesh from skin in an attempt to survive.‬
B
‭mammal bottom-feeder, always frickin’ famished,‬
‭little ugly thing who feasts on what crumbs fall‬
‭from the corners of our mouths, but you live‬
‭uncuddled, uncoddled, can't be bought at Petco‬
‭and fed to fat snakes because you are not the maze-rat‬
‭Of labs: pale, pretty-eyed, trained.‬
‭You raise yourself sharp fanged, clawed, scarred,‬
‭patched dark—because of this‬
‭He should love you.‬

‭ ecause in July of '97, you birthed a legion‬

B ‭ ut look at the beast, the poet tells me.‬
‭on 109th, swarmed from behind the dumpsters,‬
‭made our streets infamous for something‬
‭other than crack. We nicknamed you "Cat-killer”.‬
‭Raced with you through open hydrants,‬
‭squeaked like you when Siete blasted‬
‭aluminum bat into your brethren's skull—‬
‭the sound: slapped down dominoes.‬
‭You reigned that summer, Rat;‬
‭And even when they sent exterminators,‬
‭Half dead and on fire, you‬
‭pushed on.‬
B
‭The table is already full and, Rat,‬
‭you are not a right, worthy thing. Every time they say that,‬
‭take your gutter, your dirt coat, filth this page, Rat.‬
‭Scrape your underbelly against street concrete.‬
‭You better squeak and raise the whole world, Rat.‬
‭Let loose a plague of words, Rat,‬
‭and remind them that you, that I,‬
‭we are worthy of every poem.‬
‭Here.‬