A witch head in each of their arms,
the morning’s meal still churning happily
in the acid soup of their stomachs,
their pride marches them to the authorities –
but they leave their machetes at home.
A silver fork in each of their hands,
the evening’s meal still churning happily
in the dull soup of their stomachs,
apathy clicks the remote -
let the authorities worry about it.
A white case in each of their arms,
the morning’s meal pink on the chocolate earth
where brown bones of bodies writhed,
their shock takes them to the authorities -
but they were busy selling machetes.