The Bounty

Underfoot, they are the chunky bodies
of hamsters a week dead, a lot of soft
give and then the stop of skeleton.

They litter the ground like rubble, each with
just one bite taken. Last night’s rain rendered
them fragrant with rot and now the sun is

a musical theatre star of yesteryear
over dressed and shouting in my ear
at a never ending party.

This only eggs them on. They lie in wait
like zombie children, I slip on their flesh
like a cartoon woman. We longed to eat them,

we waited years but this old tree laughs tart
tough fruit, scant flesh and too many possums.
Doesn’t anyone have the recipe

to break this spell and set me free?
Anyone need a ton of mango coulis?
Our Labrador cleans them up, eats them whole,

we find the yellow foam of her vomit
dotted around the seed still hale and hairy,
ready for the earth.

Lisa Brockwell

If you have any comments on this poem, Lisa Brockwell would be pleased to hear them.