the line pulls them along

all day,
all night the chickens die.
strung
on cords
by their feet, their
red claws,
their bodies
white as cotton,
fat
for the slaughter,
bursting feathers in
tight cages.
nothing near human
in their black
eyes.
they are pulled along,
the music
of the machine, a string
orchestra
of maddening noise.
they are
shocked at first
with a bolt of electricity
then
their throats cut,
to get the blood out.
to drain them dry,
heads come
off,
feet.
then stripped clean
to the skin.

once you've seen
it,
you never again eat
a wing, or leg, a breast,
or thigh.