Even Knives Have Skins Too

Poverty wields a mighty hammer & watches the sunset
western suburbs trap the stench of factories and moral rot
in the cracks of their colonial walls
through which darkness of the black-eyed sky slithers
& sets into an anvil on which red hot hearts
are forged into sharp-edged bodies that go out
to lurk in alleys like famished crocodiles in swamps

At dawn poverty’s blistered hands push men into the factory
smoke mixed with slivered wholeness of the neighbourhood
the guise of gloom’s replaced by the deceit of smiles
& as a corpse is found in its blood someone whispers
a sick statistic it’s the third one this week
the frightened cup their chins and breathe in shock
the perpetrators have hearts in their pockets beating the heat
out of their skins they also cup their chins and look frightened

By Dzikamayi Chando

Biography:

Dzikamayi Chando writes from Gweru, Zimbabwe. He vacillates between the meaninglessness of life and the purpose of life- reading and sometimes writing inbetween. You can connect with him on Twitter @dzikamayic.