Mourn the Sheep
I work in a meat packing factory. I sanitize and package the meat for public consumption. I am covered in the blood of a thousand sheep that I did not kill.
The owners of the factory don’t like it when I go to the pens, I don’t like going to the pens but sometimes I am forced to. The sheep frolic and dance, gamboling into the slaughterhouse wrapped in hoah-hoah dreams and cellophane flags but they hesitate when they see me, smell the blood on my hands, encrusting my hair.
The owners know that my very existence disturbs the sheep but he needs me and my brethren because the sheep must not dwell on the meat, could not package their brothers and sisters and then leap lightly into the blades.
I am dreaming of roadkill, a dead dog by the side of the road. I long for the deer slaughtered by the stray mountain lion. I await the aged turtle, passing from dreams to death. These who have lived life to the fullest, unfettered by lies await my gentle touch.
I know where the meat comes from.
The owners of the factory don’t like it when I go to the pens, I don’t like going to the pens but sometimes I am forced to. The sheep frolic and dance, gamboling into the slaughterhouse wrapped in hoah-hoah dreams and cellophane flags but they hesitate when they see me, smell the blood on my hands, encrusting my hair.
The owners know that my very existence disturbs the sheep but he needs me and my brethren because the sheep must not dwell on the meat, could not package their brothers and sisters and then leap lightly into the blades.
I am dreaming of roadkill, a dead dog by the side of the road. I long for the deer slaughtered by the stray mountain lion. I await the aged turtle, passing from dreams to death. These who have lived life to the fullest, unfettered by lies await my gentle touch.
I know where the meat comes from.