A Parable of Sorts

By Malika Booker
We danced to rancorous tunes on spiked ground and
our knees sang with each puncture, so that several

agouti colonies, melanic in our russet strengths,
learned as wild rats to scurry or guard ourselves from

skin-spite. Immune from nocturnal drowsiness
we strong-bellied creatures assembled, campaigned;

gyrated to blowed trumpets and cradled songs, but,
us black rats with our rogue swagger that spoke

of foreign ports, pranced our survival shuffle in
night’s murky dance halls. Each step our single

prayer, each jab our benediction. This tart sermon
containered our septic hurts and lean swaggers. On

the strike of dawn, we skittered from shadows, the
redeemed walking day’s straight-road into warpland.