The gray utensil, heavy in the hand
The blades positioned
At the cross point of bird and beast
The sickening crunch as you crush through the bone
The tendons pull and the claws flex
In a demented game of puppetry
A pinch, a snip, a slice
The tear and an explosion of tawny plume
The pull of the coat reveals
The warm pink flesh
A simple push at the knees
And the pearly bone is exposed.
A quick flick of the wrist
At the thick line of fat
And the cavity
Is full exposed
A hand stuck inside
And the nails scrape clean
The essence that once gave it life.
Pure water runs clear
The meat packaged fresh.
A sponge and a mop wipe blood clean
A vacuum removes any trace of the mess
The reeking stench of death
Only alive in the mind of the butcher.