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