Poem by Sarah Chack 

Art by Seven Descheneaux 

A yellow line confines us 
to this place, 
keeps our feet racing across 
the cracks in the pavement; 

these are the ley lines of a small world, 
newly founded magic borders 
that not even the strongest of us 
dare to cross. 

We follow a familiar scent 
with the hope that it will bring 
relief to our aching jaws 
long after the sun dips below 
the uneven, smog-filled horizon 
that hangs like a guillotine 
                                 over our heads, 
long after the big, fleshy rats 
have scattered, flushed themselves 
out of our subways 
and returned to their 
tiny, boxed burrows. 

We bite.  

The grease drips 
from between our teeth, 
creates a trail that runs 
                                 down the stairs 
                                                 of the subway as we 
                pull and pull and pull, 
try to bring this food to our table.

We, too, were once pups, 
young and callow and filled entirely 
with a need to view the world only
 in singularities. 

We, too, once bit the hands 
of the rats that fed us. 

And now? 
Now we must let the pups bite 
our grease riddled paws 
in the darkest parts of the night; 

let them feast 
upon the spoils of a war 
that they will only know 
when their yellow lines 
are bathed in red.