The spike protruding
From the back of my hand
Is made of bone. Not mine,
But my animal spirit’s right femur.
I called upon it to guide me
Through a sultry jungle.
The jackal turned on me, and bit
My hand. I clubbed it to death
With a fallen tree branch.
Then I skinned it, and fashioned
The spike that is now on my hand.
I tracked the sun’s passage,
Using the spike as a crude compass.
I emerged from the jungle,
Alive, thankful I had killed the animal
Within me, and used its death
To create a means to save myself.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen