“The chickens try to hide their head from you by sticking it
  under the wing of the chicken next to them on the slaughter line. You
  can tell by them looking at you, they’re scared to death.”
  – Virgil Butler, former Tyson chicken slaughterhouse worker
   
Beth Clifton's collage depicts the contrition of Virgil Butler & Laura Alexander, who wrote: “We could no longer look at a piece of meat anymore without seeing the sad face of the suffering animal who had lived in it when the animal was still alive.”
Chicken “wings” aren’t wings, since real wings contain full-grown bones.
An industry article about “more wings from every chicken” explained that “A new patented cut uses the chicken’s scapula bone and surrounding meat and skin to yield six – not four – wing pieces per bird.”
The scapula is the chicken’s shoulder blade – skin, bone, flesh, and cartilage mishmashed into “wings” to disguise what they actually are.
(Ancestral memories in a metal “broiler” chicken shed.)
    He sits in this house of feces and pain 
    With thousands of others 
    All the same, call it a triumph or 
    Call it insane. 
    His eyes are burning. 
    His liver is leaking. 
    His legs are aching and lame. 
    But he will be 
    Eaten with pleasure 
    All the same.
  
    His nerves, bones and tendons will be nuggets in a bucket 
    Chewed by a fan 
    At a game. 
    His “wings” (don’t ask) will prove 
    What it means 
    To be a Man 
    Like every other 
    Man and his brother, 
    Inane.
  
    His breast will water 
    The mouth of a lady trying 
    To lose weight with this 
    Lump on her plate. 
    For this he was made 
    For supper. 
  
  
    Meanwhile he dreams his 
    Impossible dream: 
    Ancestral memories 
    Of family and friends 
    Of tropical forest all rainy and green 
    From which he came 
    To suffer like this 
    For a foul mouth of chicken bliss. 
    – Karen Davis
  
   
Perdue Chicken House photo by David Harp
