raising chickens to kill

by Sophia Li

 

Picking which one to slaughter 

is always an ordeal, especially after years of 

waking up at dawn, 

ripping strips of celery and dried broccoli, 

seizing moths with silver tweezers and 

keeping them in jars to release into the evening air as treats. 

I refrain from naming them, 

but still they are hauntingly distinct to me, 

the colors of her feathers, speckled or solid, the 

gait of her walk, the way she clucks in groups of twos or three high notes. 

I have become attached to the bald patches in the lawn. 

I have spent eternity taking her eggs, and 

now I will take her life. 

Gazing through the bent wire mesh I feel somewhat like a 

deity, deciding who is worthy of sacrifice, 

some brutal and removed sentiment. 

Her feathers will coat the grass in silk, 

her bones will fertilize the dark brown earth and 

her flesh will become my flesh, strength pulled 

taut in vermilion fibers and dissolved in the fog.

My mother, who said eating wings would make me fly.

I feel awful, but I am not sorry.