On a pure may morning
adorned 
with the morning star above
and the jewellery of dew
sunning up the ground,
that bastard ate my boy.

And why?

We gave them the gift
of domesticity 
and presented
our hearts, homes and trust
but still he ate my child,
scranned
my wife’s last fragile faith
in life; in a way
he savaged her as well, post- mortem,
and now she too is gone.

And that is why, your honour, I took justice into
my own jaws when,
while passing that exotic dog, one
that had nothing
to do with
my family’s immediate implosion, I took a chunk
from his neck, bare as a child’s in the summer
sun and wept and made my peace
to a god, unknowing

that in some unreal way there is no time
and the feasting on my

poor little lad may well

exist beyond

cause and

effect. 

Time may even run backwards.

How would we even know?

I’m not even sure anymore
who it was
who bit first.