Passage

Passage Young boys prepare to slaughter chickens they’ve pampered and hand-fed for weeks now, first killing for both. The same stump where they learned to split kindling for a snug fit in the belly of the old cook range: The axe honed to a feather’s edge. White carcasses bleeding under a blank sky, lined up in single file according to terms laid down by those who came before. The reasons given are sound, it’s how things are done, the ground littered with feathers and entrails, the stump red, The stolid harvest noted in sheepish grins.