Belinda Rimmer
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Chicken Coop

I take long strides to the outermost edges
of a wood filled with shapes
so long they never end. I'm drawn to dark places.
I spend my time alone, trusting my instinct.

​Beyond the fence is a coop, busy as a market.
I hunt for chicken – a spit of meat, feather and bone.
I turn my back on rabbits, and human scraps
rotting in rainbow wrappers like an invitation to die.

On hot, fizzing nights, farmers short-cut through the wood.
They piss on the ferns. The ferns grow thicker.
They carry shot-guns. If I die I'll haunt them for coming here,
to my alone place, to piss on the ferns,

shoot at my shadow.




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  • Home
  • Writing
    • Childrens
    • Picture Books
    • Short Stories
  • Arty Things
    • Sewing
    • Found stuff
  • Poetry
  • Paper Sculpting
  • Literacy
  • About
  • Contact