One Christmas morning before church,
we ran out to the yard through thick, fast snow
to feed our rats, and found the female
quivering by a silent pile of stillborns.
One or two had been chewed at,
but most of them were complete.
No hair: just blotches where the fur
would have grown black.
My brother frowned
and with his blunt, quick fingers
swivelled a wooden catch to let
the door swing open.
With one hand he …
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