As If By Invisible Hands

I woke up today
face down
in a roasted chicken. 

The evidence around me
suggested that I may have
slaughtered, cleaned,
and cooked it here
in the backyard

while I slept,
as I did not
recall any
of this bloody
and brutal work.  

I wiped my face,
grabbed a leg and thigh
and went inside
to find

hides in various stages
of dressing and tanning, 
thin hint of blood,
buckets of guts and hair,
tools I did not know I owned
strewn on the kitchen table,

and again, recalled nothing
of this hard labor; didn’t ache
in strange places, was not
at all tired, could find not one speck
of gore upon me —

so I turned from all this
and sat down
upon my couch
and turned on the TV

for stories of slayer drones and 
the machinations of money men,
tales of police killings and 
poisoned water, go-slow language
for urgent issues — all else

that happened while I slept
and could not feel any pain
or fatigue for having done.

Well fed, clothed
as if by magic, 
as if by invisible hands,

I am still sitting here
with only a vague sense
that I should 
hurt.