These games are do or die.
Strap a blade on us,
throw us in the ring and place your bets.
You could win maybe ten thousand dollars!

We are killers—los gallos
en la arena—
you stick your neck out—
you get hurt.
When the razor comes down—
on the cock-sure—
they won't be so cocky ...
anymore.

You are standing by, watching us stab
each other for your sport.
You are shouting so loudly, and
nobody
is going to hear
your screams
when I turn the blade that draws so much blood—
and pays the highest dividends—
on you.

Who is "cock-of-the-walk" now, amigo?

©  Kat Mortensen


Rooster stabs man to death at cockfight

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Read Kat Mortensen at Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes

Today a crystal-bright February fog
flickers in sunlight above your graves,
As one by one you vapour forth
to flutter greyly in the air.

One hundred sled dogs championed
by one hundred red-mittened hands,
And one hundred glory-waving flags,
Oh Canada, true patriot love.

Now we stand on guard,
arms full of vanished bones
and tainted splendid deeds.
Naked in the red-stained snow.

We bless with gruff praise,
seeking God in gutters like
Mother Theresa. Candlelight
Vigil grasping grace from lament.


© Jo Maurits

Tourism lull led to ‘execution-style killings’ of 100 B.C. sled dogs.

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Jo's Blog is A Nana's Journey