Martyr

There is a dead rat in the train
tracks,
sprawled in between the rails,

doesn’t look like he died from trauma,
head still intact, no
spilled brains or intestines—maybe
poison, can’t be
hunger in the New York City subways;

that
was three weeks ago,
today he was still there;
is he really dead?

Did he know
the consequence of dying
there, alone,
unreachable, no
sanitary worker to pick him up, no
burial.

How can he, whose bones
I can now see revealed,
by his right leg, still white;
whose fur still grows blacker with dust
and whose form grows
more unrecognizable;

How can a body of
decomposing flesh be dead
when it’s still transforming, feeding
carnivorous bacteria
new life?