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.