A Brief Biography of My Name

Pest Control

The long mot arata is a type of

Sierra Leonean rodent that strikes

its prey in sleep. It nibbles away
at its victims while they are nestled

in deep recline. Its teeth sand down

calluses until they reveal scarlet

and beige flesh.
Though its stomach collapses

under the anvil of hunger,

this mouse has principle.
It takes tiny breaks to purse its lips

and push a stream of cold wind onto

its target’s feet, so as to offset any irritation

that may tussle the unsuspecting

out of slumber.
Though I don’t know if anyone in my

family could positively identify the long

mot arata in a lineup of offenders,

their certitude of the mouse’s

existence is irrefutable; it lies in the way
they express the betrayal they have often

felt at daybreak. They are disturbed by

the scene: short brown hairs flecked

on the bed and maroon paw prints inked

by their own blood.
Not even the simple act of rest comes

without profound suffering.
For most of my life, I have been haunted

by the tale of the long mot arata, and

taught to question my friends just like these

creatures, to doubt the admiration of anyone

who loves me without good enough reason,

to look for punctured heels following any

explosion of praise leaving a familiar mouth.
I had fallen many times from this spell:

the cool current passing over my toes

before seeing a bit of myself hanging

from your smiling lips. My wound, a

trace of your icy-breath desire to

take my feet and walk away from me.
I have gathered all of your forgotten

fur from my nightstand drawer and

plastered it to my body.
The moon makes an indigo silhouette

of your whiskers and snout.

Still and quiet, I wonder just when

you will notice how long you have been

eating yourself in the dark.

Yalie Kamara