When Man Hears of an Injustice
by Alison Hansen-Decelles
Sixty times the moon glitters as it rises
Blinks out when it sets.
The rugged men in their blood-soaked aprons see it
Each night, as they head back to civility.
The eyes of the Jailbirds
Never see the moon.
But they always see the night.
They see a holocaust, day in and day out.
There are millions of Jailbirds serving time for being chickens
Because they should have known better.
They are not human, the rugged men say.
And that is a crime so untenable
The death penalty must be invoked.
So the genocide rumbles on, behind the great doors
Of the concentration camps the men call factory farms.
The camp is crowded, filthy, and dark.
The Jailbirds sit on bars, lean against bars
Wither and die behind the bars.
But the rugged men who toss grain to the chickens
Say the chickens are all right. The chickens are happy.
They’re comfy like that.
Besides, it’s for a good cause.
Man is hungry.
The Jailbirds’ food is heavily drugged
And the birds grow so quickly their organs collapse.
Their bones snap, their skeletons give out.
Extra weight throws off bodily proportions.
They are badly deformed.
But the rugged men who toss grain to the chickens
Say the chickens are gaining weight because they are happy.
What good eaters they are.
Besides, Man is hungry.
The rugged men in the blood-soaked aprons
Who slice jugulars from nine to five
Say the chickens are asking for it.
That’s what they say when they squawk.
And by now Man is hungrier than ever.
The bodies of the Jailbirds wind up cut,
Cleaned, coated, and turning on a spit.
Now the corpses are not birds, but meat.
They do not belong to themselves, but to us.
So Man thinks it is all right to order a greasy carry-out.
For Man always sees the moon, and Man always sees civility.
The chicken companies do not want him to see what goes on
Behind the great doors of the death camps.
But when Man hears of the holocaust and sees the pictures
Of the blood and the feathers and the pain,
He throws away his greasy carton, procures a pen
And pad of paper, and sits down to write a letter.
Which is just what I have done. |
