KILLING CHOOKS
I've grown accustomed to your fate..
But it will never be a pleasure, always a chore.
The ritual sharpening of the Knife,
the Preparations, the overalls Regalia.
the props and paraphernalia of the Rites of Death.
The Chosen One squawks
in a voice reserved for its last utterance.
A cry too human for comfort...
.. the younger rooster whose gender has sealed his fate
- Last Will and Testicle-
.. the older hen whose barrenness increases her worth as soup.
My pulse quickens in sympathy.
There is always adrenaline..
(How could you kill a man?)
Removing the head makes the bloodchilling pleas cease, at least.
The eyes close immediately,
Always.
The beak continues to open & close
Screaming its silent squawks.
The pointed tongue jabbing
at the murderer like a j'accuse finger.
The legs run through the air in futile flight.
The heart's final task to pump empty the carcass.
Then Rest in Peace.
Because i can't dress it
when it's still moving...
Remove handfuls of feathers as emeraldgreen, henna orange (i smile grimly at the
pun) & golden as its
more flamboyant pheasant cousin.
The back-to-front knees yield easily to the knife.
Skin beneath the wings loose like old women's armpits.
Legs astride, naked, awaiting its C-section.
The incision, the body cavity just big enough for a man's hand.
Removal of stillwarm intestines, liver & tiny arrested heart.
The gizzard, containing the Last Supper- green grass, seeds & small pebbles.
Turned inside-out, wrinkled
as a cold scrotum, soft as a steamed dimsim.
Pour boiling water on the velociraptor feet
Sloughing off the scaly snakeskin, vestigial reptilian past.
Supine, legs tucked up
Less a bird now.
More a commodity.
Copyright © Rob Walker May 2000