Livestock Poem by Jared Carter

At journey's end, forced to debark
and follow ramps
That funnel them down through the dark,
into a damp,

Metallic room, where racks of knives
await - they go,
In single file, their route devised
so none can know

In minutes they will all be dead.
They only mind
That what keeps prodding them ahead
is from behind.


First published in Flying Island.