Foraging
Foraging
Who will marry a dog? A Yoruba woman said.
That very morning it was dicey. Straits start out the
Same way daily like putrescent corpses wallowing in
Excremental death of Stunned minds.
Their minds are frozen in the grasp of antediluvian Paws
Fearful of preceding ancestral, natural laws.
The fearful forage feverishly like
Inheritors since infancy -cursed.
Nobody cared to warn them
About other worlds. “What other worlds?”
They inquired. Nobody cared to.
The explanations of VOA in
A radio talk show tolled
A selfsame game of
Wedlock and wealth’s
Longevity over all else
-in preacherly histrionics.
The focus was committed
Meant to keep straits in line.
A mother danced the hypocrite’s
Conditionality clauses into
Her over eager son‘s head.
Facile, while her little
Boy laughed, chuffed,
Stuffed with copses for friends.
Clapton Pond drew near. A pair of straits imbued
Felt well placed to snigger
On unstudied news like they cared.
“Who will marry a dog?” She said,
subtle as hell bird. How cowardice cloaked in
Merriment misleads the merry
“only the dead of excrement,”
As the Yoruba would say.
“Would stoop that low.”
Diasporaic diversity knew better,
Only human beings, beastly inhumanity
Will dare to
Palea in the excremental
Deadly stew of fear.
Mia Nikasimo (c) September 2009
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