Mournful flames lick the edges of the pot,
overflowing liquid lapped up by tongues,
under such tremendous heat, they sizzle,
religion dictates we stir whom we caught,
nibble the flesh of our victim that melts
fluidly off her bones, we sing our songs
until our lungs burst, then gnaw on gristle,
learn our ancestral methods, how we cope
from loss, we catch a kid, strap her with belts,
leave her to cry in boiling oil, listen
as the god possesses her tongue, her voice,
my child, my child, you never had a choice,
ever so sweet, we watch your flesh glisten,
seems a waste, you weren't born an antelope.
--
"The pot was soot-black and the feeble flames that licked its sides showed pale pink and bordered with black, like flames in mourning."
p.47: The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
Second Vintage International Edition, 1995. Random House, New York: 1952.
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