He left me in the cradle of the womb
And ended in the stable of the tomb
I felt the tears of the broken carrier
Who tried her hardest to be no barrier
Yet sat famished as I crouched hungrily within
The cooking was short and superbly hot
For the one who’d a storiing, food got caught
For the one who stirred, she was a floozy
Whose beautiful temple was so damn cozy,
So finished not caring what he left behind
Hearing the ingredients and manner I was cooked
Makes me pray for heaven to have him flunked.
For him to leave me picturing his face,
For him to make me quicken my pace
In anger at every thought, I wish for his neck
The farmer who planted a seed indiscriminately
And walked without turning his back unashamedly
Has caused many a heartache to his folks
Who have passed through these hands
No matter how I try, his unformed face puts power in my fist.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
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