I.

the cat
a fat, red, one-eyed beast
drags the rat, screaming, from its hidey hole.
no one dies that year.

II.

the cat is old.
when it is gone the rats come, and with them –
the boils, the rattling breath, the pus
the fevers, the rash, the bloody flux
the shivering, the pox
death by many names.
all night I stand in the cemetery, digging graves.

III.

he comes with finery and jewelry
whistling his melody
into our town of desolate dead, of scuttling rats.
his teeth are filed. he purrs like a cat.
give me gold, he says,
and I will take all the rats.

IV.

I am the mayor’s wife.
we have no gold, he says,
but life means life means life
so let him blow his pipe.

V.

he walks the streets, notes at his heels
and rats by the hundreds, the thousands
come from cellars, from barns
from the mansions and farms
come to die upon
the blade of his flute.
and die they do.

VI.

I am the mayor’s wife.
we have no gold, he says,
but life means life means life
you blew your pipe.
the piper smiles –
and plays his pipe again that night.

VII.

this time, no graves.
just empty arms, empty hearts, empty beds.
well, says my husband,
at least there’s no more rats.
that night I take his head.

VIII.

I am the mayor’s wife.
we have no gold, I say,
here’s your payment, life for life
so give me back my child.
the piper smiles.

IX.

the cat
a lean, grey, purring kitty
sleeps in our bed in the city.
I think, sometimes, of Hamelin’s dead.
but I have no regrets.

(in my dreams, still, the scurrying rats.)