The Broiler Chicken

by

Her comb is no longer red.
It’s meaningless to preen.
She stands hunched as a deadpan mushroom.
Only flesh matters in her man-made coop.
.
She cannot forage in freedom.
She’s not a living thing.
There isn’t any wax to seal the pain-pores.
Bedding absorbs her vibrancy.
A dust bath, she longs for.

No cluck.
Nothing hatches.
Her thoughts transform into coral tree thorns.

Reek of feces and death dominates.
Yet her blind mates peck voraciously.

There’s neither postmortem nor FIR.
This is a recurrent licensed murder.

First prize winning poem of Creative Writing Ink (Ireland) April 2018 Contest.


Comments

Fabiyas M V's picture
It’s a pleasure to share the comments by the Creative Writing Ink contest judge and poet Eileen Casey: '...it ticked my boxes in terms of initial response. This poem goes deep into the emotional vein. It's disturbing, challenging and makes use of everything available to it within its points of reference. There's a sense of finality here that evokes a sense of outrage, the 'licensed murder' is so powerful. All of the entries were engaging in some ways but 'The Broiler Chicken' appears to transcend its subject matter in terrifying and very contemporary ways.'

fab

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