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Song of Chickens

Song Of Chickens

Master, you talked with bows,
Arrows and catapults once
Your hands steaming with hawk blood
To protect your chicken.

Why do you talk with knives now,
Your hands teeming with eggshells
And hot blood from your own chicken?
Is it to impress your visitors?

from The Last of the Sweet Bananas: New & Selected Poems (Bloodaxe & Wordsworth Trust, 2004), copyright © Jack Mapanje 2004, used by permission of the author and Bloodaxe Books Ltd.

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