The Doubt of A Butcher

 The doubt of a butcher

If I choke a chicken,

will it choke me

in another life?

He doesn’t move.

The chicken breathes

inside his hand—

fast,

hot,

alive.

Its neck fits

perfectly

between his fingers.

He presses.

A sound—

half air,

half scream—

gets stuck.

The wings beat

against his wrist.

Something slips.

His grip.

Or his mind.

His throat tightens.

He swallows—

nothing goes down.

Again—

he presses.

The beak opens.

Nothing comes out.

Only a dry shape

of a sound.

His chest jerks.

He coughs.

Air refuses him.

For a second—

he lets go.

The chicken inhales.

So does he.

They stand there—

two bodies

learning breath

again.

He looks at it.

It looks nowhere.

Its eye—

round,

wet,

already leaving.

His fingers return.

Slower this time.

Careful.

Like finishing

something important.

The neck sinks

deeper

into his hand.

The body trembles—

then forgets how.

Silence.

He waits

for something to happen

to him.

Nothing.

Only his breath—

coming back

piece by piece.

He touches his throat.

Still open.

Still his.

He laughs—

a small, broken sound.

Then wipes his hand

on his shirt.

Warm.

Not his.

He picks up the next one.