They run giggling
into a blue room
lined with death and freezers.
My cousins are
young like veal
and take no notice of

refrigerated flesh
necks, breasts and thighs
neatly dressed in pressed cellophane,
instead the chicks
carry on their game of

hide and seek amongst
tendon and bone as my
aunt throws
a handful in the cart,
treats for pets.

Soon the calves are restless.
Bored and cold they
shiver ridiculous
like the last survivors
of an Alaskan plane crash.

Their hen shushes them
checks her wallet
chucks two more
wrapped in plastic.

At checkout the youngest
requests candy. A plastic
pickle tub is presented
filled with cherry goldfish, lemon
lollipops and pink bubble gum.

We skip out,
five of us, holding
our mouths
stuffed with sweetness.

Published in Streetlight Press

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