When they threw me into the pit, a shard of flint split
my chin. I flicked it out of my jawbone and lay
In my leaking heap, regarding the fineness of its flesh-
incising point. Up the black chimney of my prison
Vulture stars were circling, repeating all the familiar
horrifying patterns. There was blood in the schist
Of course, and a dried palm leaf. Before I died I learned
to draw: scrap of meat, empty belly (that pictogram
An inspiration), club. And when the idiot children fell
into my darkness and found what I’d done, it taught them
To sing my life while they kicked the weak one, growling curses
and clawing each other blind for a turn beating rhythm
On the dusty fault lines of somebody’s skull with a broken femur.
