what's for dinner?

when my grandmother
lena,
would go out into the back
yard
of her little row
house in south philly
to grab
a fat chicken, and then
wring it's neck
without blinking an eye,
we became worried
and confused.
all of them had names,
they were well fed
and cared for,
not unlike us grand children.
were we at some point
going to be
baked and seasoned,
fried in her big
black pan,
or end up in a sunday
stew?