Poultry

I am the dead chicken. Of course I am dead. Of course I can still see. I know the kitchen. I have been here before. Thousands of times. Millions. I have been in primeval kitchens, ones made of rocks in caves, crevasses in sands, castles and tents. I am cooked over and over again. I am eaten. Swallowed. Pushed and torn, my molecules pulled apart, my sinews and bones bolster my organs, my sinew and bone to your sinew and bone.
They cut me in all places.
Every part to its purpose. Delicately they extract my bones. They roll my flesh, my meat. They stuff it and tie it. They keep one hole and fill my empty self with foods with lemons and onions with thyme and rosemary. My traveling companions, my supporting staff, my supporting cast, my co-actors, we go to our fates together. And return and return. A cycle like an engine starting, running, stopping. We are the feeders.