January 31, 2012

supper

In cooking chicken
Hanged heads and feet
Dry at the door
This once live thing
Lay in a bed
Of its own feathers
Fingers
Peeling skin
And broke bones
Nestled in the pot
It's own liquids
Soften timed roots
My own hands
Blood slicked
The stink of slow
Rotted flesh
Still tracked
For supper
One day
I will be
Such a thing

6 comments:

Brian Miller said...

whew...a rather grisly closing on this...one day i will be such a thing....

marousia said...

Woah - stomach turning - very effective writing

Heaven said...

I have actually seen how a chicken is killed...and its not a pretty sight~

Chilling ending
~http://a-sweetlust.blogspot.com/2012/01/honour.html

jackiedick said...

Not sure I'll have chicken tonight. But think, Heather...this too solid flesh will melt someday true....but at least we write poetry...the chicken doesn't know or care about that, tho...Oh, boy! one more reason to be a vegetarian. Yikes!

Charles Miller said...

I understand the repulsion that some have felt in reading your poem. However, I disagree that that in and of itself makes rhe poem what it is. As Jack Kerouac once said, sometimes you wake up and see what's sticking on your fork. He called it the naked lunch. There's a lot of that here, I think.

gautami tripathy said...

Hit hard kinda poem...


opposites