Tuesday, January 7, 2014


They stand by my window

when a fish is fried

or marinated with minnows

slithering in onion orbs smothered,

the three blades of exhaust fan

vacillate to fill barren beads of oxygen

with their favourite fragrance

they climb onto the broken furniture

abashed in our backyard

curl their toes on plastic paper

in a thoughtless thanking

for bidding comfort from rains.

They catch flies and swell with

hollow hubris when predators bury

their burden in the

brown of the earth,

they barge through gullible grills

slurping milk for the child

with a smile so content

that raises their whiskers

in sheepish apology for a fluffy fault

and on lonely nights

they whine and tell you

that slumber is the daughter of death.

RLP Award 2013 Longlist

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