Chicken on a Sunday

that old Formica dining table
topped by oil cloth, stiff and brown
set the scene of my descent into anarchy

Dada’s rage clung with such tenacity
down that duck-egg green wall of shame
how could Ma stand to feed the brute
and be so user-friendly
was beyond my imagination

a thousand meals of sacrifice
another ten thousand more
when she could no longer be his golden goose
she was any body’s whore


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Carlyon Blackman is a born/bred Bajan native of Barbados who is defining/refining her voice through poetry. Previous publications include The Caribbean Writer. Carlyon can be reached at blackberryjuice@hotmail.com

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Going from strength to strength. Great writing. I too remember chicken on a sunday (and the men getting the lion's share)!

Anonymous said...

What a truly "delicious" poem! Luv it.

Anonymous said...

Sooo delicious, I can even taste the poetry! Wonderful

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