The Bounty
Underfoot, they are the chunky
bodies
of hamsters a week dead, a lot
of soft
give and then the stop of
skeleton.
They litter the ground like
rubble, each with
just one bite taken. Last
night’s rain rendered
them fragrant with rot and now
the sun is
a musical theatre star of
yesteryear
over dressed and shouting in
my ear
at a never ending party.
This only eggs them on. They
lie in wait
like zombie children, I slip
on their flesh
like a cartoon woman. We
longed to eat them,
we waited years but this old
tree laughs tart
tough fruit, scant flesh and
too many possums.
Doesn’t anyone have the recipe
to break this spell and set me
free?
Anyone need a ton of mango
coulis?
Our Labrador cleans them up,
eats them whole,
we find the yellow foam of her
vomit
dotted around the seed still
hale and hairy,
ready for the earth.
Lisa Brockwell
If you have any comments on
this poem, Lisa
Brockwell would be pleased to hear them.