Cold Cuts
The drone of feeding flies warned me
I should have turned and run
Before the wind freshened
Searing my nose with a strange slow burn
Looking at the slumped remains
Vacant eyes drying stiff
No longer squinting into the setting sun
Caught mid-thought forever
I marvelled at their height and heft
The stringing of their naked sinews
And wondered if I would have liked them
Had they not been our enemies.
I looked for others of my clan
We were the fortunate ones
Our ranks won while they just fled
Or died, blood spilling pent-up hate
Nearby, my cousins robbed the dead
One of them flashed a flint knife stroking
Counting cock tips as he sliced
He’d heard one hundred bought a princess.
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