eighteen chickens in an argentine chapel

Crates of decapitated chicken bodies,

cocooned in plastic bags.

Post-execution victims

brought to the church for proper burial.

A few haphazard feathers cling to cold,

bubbly skin. My knife unzips

small spinal bones,

cracking this grown egg into

two bodies.

My thumbs press into cracks,

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tiny hearts and livers

collected in a plastic bag.

Blood drips from the counter,

another crate is brought in.

Sometimes the blade snags,

half through half frozen skin,

small feathers caught under my fingernails.

I have already disturbed the privacy

of my current bird, peering between its legs

before going for the heart

and pruny lungs and liver.

My fingers squeeze organ juices,

popping them into a plastic bag

we soon overfill.

Another crate, bodies in the sink:

eighteen chickens.

We fill a trashcan with poultry

as the sink is already past

carrying capacity.

Feathers plastered to the steel sink belly,

a lost heart floundering in

mingled blood and yellow chicken blubber.

In the church courtyard, men add logs

for a religious asado.