PS Sorry, chick’n

A brief follow-up from my last entry.

A brief follow-up from my last entry. Soon after writing it, I rediscovered Jack Mapanje’s poem ‘Song of Chickens’. For Mapanje, it is a political protest about his native Malawi. For me, it is the spirit voices of about five chickens, speaking from their enteric grave.

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 teaming with eggshells
And hot blood from your own chicken?
Is it to impress your visitors?

It’s complex stuff, this eating meat thing. I don’t know how the y’all do it.

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