---

My Father the Just, John the black Help
and I the Mute Son (upon us be peace)
load chickens, subdued
in mid-summer torpor,
destined for slaughter.

Voiceless seemed their travellers’
prayers fluttering dry our sweat;
where no haven was
their whispers disembarked
midst the rush of axes.

If I knew departure included
arrival I might never leave,
but to recall that place
as destination for
transients.

---