one little rat makes two little steaks,
and a steak is a meal or video still, one
frame in a longer shot. one little rat
carries a secret like a warning. one
little rat makes a steak-pack double,
one meal for two or a two-part
food-drama involving the passage of
meat, milk, hair, salt across borders.
one little rat is a pathogen, soft as a
word, canny as plastic. one rat shakes
on my arm in an anxious embrace; one
rat tugs at my cuff to show the back
entrance or weak point. one little
rat can milk a beet or freight gossip,
one rat divided make two dumb steaks
slapping at each other over a loose,
fuzzy phone line. or – classic rat –
one rat chews its way through the
wires and foam, through the layers
of copper or lead, through the jet oil
and haircream, all the way to another
rat, who, herself two steaks only roughly
covered in a jacket, chews right back
and falls in love.