The Rat Hole
Haley Olds | Poetry, Spring 2025
Everyone is talking about the rat hole
though it’s been there 20 years.
The neighbors bring offerings, vigils, marriage
altars. The alderman plans
to fill it, promised the way we all filled
in his bubble last February.
Tomorrow, there will be a thawing snow, a
Bitterness under the brown line.
I think of all the times I’ve denied myself joy,
The kind you forget yourself in.
I wonder if the rats know we care enough about
Their impression to seek pilgrimage.
That creature, long dead with cement paws.
How hard it must have been to carry around
its dried limbs, his scurry slowed. We, who
Seek the inconsequential delight, who
Seek the reprieve of the crushing, fickle world.
The rat traps set out by the dumpster and
The internet, silent. One day I want to be loved
So violently I disappear.
________________________________________________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Often, writing poetry to me is a way of leaving an imprint. Here, I quite literally talk about the viral Chicago quasi-fossil of the rat hole where both the speaker and its subject work towards significance. When you leave behind a trace of yourself, you're letting people know you were here. I think that's all we can ask of the art we make, in whatever way we make it.”
Haley Olds is a queer southern transplant and high school English teacher in Chicago. She has taught in suburban Japan, been an obituary writer and worked the front desk at a handful of hostels. Her work has been published in Spry and The Good Juju Review, an anthology of Lowcountry poets. You can contact her at @haleyshealey on Instagram.
The Rat Hole
Haley Olds | Poetry, Spring 2025
Everyone is talking about the rat hole
though it’s been there 20 years.
The neighbors bring offerings, vigils, marriage
altars. The alderman plans
to fill it, promised the way we all filled
in his bubble last February.
Tomorrow, there will be a thawing snow, a
Bitterness under the brown line.
I think of all the times I’ve denied myself joy,
The kind you forget yourself in.
I wonder if the rats know we care enough about
Their impression to seek pilgrimage.
That creature, long dead with cement paws.
How hard it must have been to carry around
its dried limbs, his scurry slowed. We, who
Seek the inconsequential delight, who
Seek the reprieve of the crushing, fickle world.
The rat traps set out by the dumpster and
The internet, silent. One day I want to be loved
So violently I disappear
__________________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Often, writing poetry to me is a way of leaving an imprint. Here, I quite literally talk about the viral Chicago quasi-fossil of the rat hole where both the speaker and its subject work towards significance. When you leave behind a trace of yourself, you're letting people know you were here. I think that's all we can ask of the art we make, in whatever way we make it.”
Haley Olds is a queer southern transplant and high school English teacher in Chicago. She has taught in suburban Japan, been an obituary writer and worked the front desk at a handful of hostels. Her work has been published in Spry and The Good Juju Review, an anthology of Lowcountry poets. You can contact her at @haleyshealey on Instagram.