It was at Sarimbun scout camp,
where forty years ago the Japanese divisions landed,
where I killed a chicken
with my bare hands.
I grabbed the hen by the neck,
under the feathers tubular
like a stethoscope,
swung the feathered globe around and with a wrist flick snapped it to the ground.
The hen squawked, scrabbled in circles, and shat.
Only mine got up,
not the others
at the pit fires of Kestrel, Eagle, Merlin, Falcon, Hawk.
My patrol watching me, I grabbed the hen again
and this time did my job as a patrol leader should.
Someone else plucked the bird in hot water.
We baked it in mud, ate it with salt, and pronounced it good.