Picking Soup Bones


Watching my grandmother
by the gutter
Prayers whispered
to my unsuspecting ears

Be not a fowl
in your new life

Chipped, blue
porcelain bowl
blood for soup
Head tilted back
eyeballs rolling
tears flowing

between her clawed fingers

A gasping beak
snapped shut
A gaping neck
silent words

Now you are free

Feathers in the yard
running amok
Flapping madly
in protest

A farewell dance
for comrades
In the coup
stands the commander

an eight-year old

Poet-Artist Ranger PEK
(c) December 27, 2000


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