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to say, those things
you say to me at dusk,
those things you hum
in monotonous ditties
like the old chief priest,
do you do so for fun,
or for weary clapper cheer,
knowing you could get hurt.
I wake up to your silent strike,
that sneaky harvest of blood
manifest in pain and swelling
yet you dare ask me for a clap,
when you hum through space,
upping the distress from heat
you dare me slap myself, after
you sample with your mandible,
the richness of my crust’s harvest
I would have obliged you, but
you’ve spoilt me with lethal strikes,
left me quarantined in white fish nets.
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