Shearing A Dead Sheep Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

She moves not on this last shearing.
There were many before. Her ewes know
she is gone. No more this scissors
snapping that leads to a nakedness
in these days where dogs wear woolen
scarves. They chased her for the last.
The shepherd whistling behind them.

The end is near for the jerseys are sold.
Cry not injustice for your coat will grow.
Now that truth is gone with the last breath.
The shears have but lost one squeaky day. The
world owes you a day long memorial.
For bells will still ring this Christmas. Your
blatant calling will be gone.