The blood moon awakens crawling shadows,
riding on gusts of wind.
A woman screams in pain
a slap rings out
a child cries in shock
final gasp and one life
replaces another.
The child, now quiet, smiles
firelight dances across rows
of sharp teeth.
The blood moon, the dying breath,
the tools of taste and tearing,
omens and portents,
bad for the tribe.
The old man calls for banishment
and no one questions him.
Laughing echoes the chasm
feet dance and scratch the earth
“I smell food, my brothers
as was foretold, as was promised”
Here, on this rock,
it is so soft and small
only a small bite for us all”
A fetid nose sniffs and pushes
against cold hairless skin.
No warning, a flash and
teeth sink into warm hairy skin.
A howl, chorused by laughing,
fills the night.
Under the blood moon
the child smiles.
“No food is this brothers,
sent we were, tricked,
to teach, to share our stories”
[tags] poetry, tricksters, myth [/tags]
Tags: Uncategorized by Monkey King
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