The Broiler Chicken
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.
Her thoughts transform into coral tree thorns.
Reek of feces and death dominates.
Yet her blind mates peck voraciously.
There’s neither post-mortem nor FIR.
This is a recurrent licensed murder.
First published in The Literary Hatchet.
Creative Writing Ink Monthly Contest winning poem.