The old rooster

pecked among coconut husks

                                        and spires of smoke.
He was a fighting cock

who woke the neighbourhood

for morning prayer,

strutting arrogantly through the yard.
He had evaded death

                                 until now.
The parang‘s edge was ready,

and just before I took his head off,

his thoughts became mine.
                        There was fear,

                        there were the stilts of a house,

                        a rusted fence and an eggshell,

                        there was the old, pointless pride.
I heard the whisk of a broom

and a flame catch on newspaper next door,

then the blade came down.
That night,

as I sat down to a thin-boned soup,

I noticed there was blood on my cuffs.