By Oswald Mbuyiseni
I counted ribs on his concertina chest
Bones protruding as if chiseled
By a sculptor’s hand of famine.
He looked with glazed pupils
Seeing only a bun on some sky-high shelf.
The skin was pale and taut
Like a glove on a doctor’s hand.
His tongue darted in and out
Like a chameleon’s
O! Child,
Your stomach is a den of lions
Roaring day and night.