My cousin the farmer is laden with death

he tells me each morning he checks the chickens

while I sleep. The weaklings need killing,

so he walks amongst them, dawn-spectre,

and takes their lives. It has to be done

he tells me. While I sleep, the long sheds

hot as summer’s guts, are home to lone

acts of kindness. Among ten thousand

fluffed bodies, his eyes hawk upon

the others, the strange-winged, hobbling,

he tells me: I get a little rope, noose

it round their necks and hang them

from the ceiling. He laughs at my belief.

I’m kidding. I just snap their necks,

like this—his huge hands twist the air

so sharp I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

Ravens haunt the nearby treetops

and foxes stalk the feathered earth

outside the sheds the survivors yet

live, for now. My cousin tells me

Cain and Abel were the first

to farm, to keep and raise animals

as sacrifice. A lamb for God. A brother

for the devil, who taught a man how

a stone could crack a skull, but not

why. When the devil brought news

of her son’s downfall, Eve said, “Woe

to you. What is murder?” “He eats not.

He drinks not. He moves not,” said he

in reply. Many months I have lain

as if felled by a fallen angel

unable to move  I tell my cousin

Maybe I lose half my days

in penance, maybe I die a little

every night, for this. The absence

of a brother. He walks away

from belief. He will sleep tonight

in the hot house, lying in the reek

of their living. He will be covered

in a cloak of wings, hear the song

of too-many hearts, and his hands

will be stone-less, still, all of them

waiting for the crack of dawn.