even Jeanine

the hens have been massacred again
their bodies are scattered
blood-orange blotches in the snow

their once brown eyes are milky now
awkward legs thrust out, stiff, ridiculous
three lifeless bodies crowd the doorway
two others are flopped near the gate
one severed head occupies a corner of the coop

even Jeanine lies limp

Jeanine survived one attack already
we found her hiding one morning
surrounded by gore and carcasses
her right eyeball dangled from its socket for weeks
it dried up, shriveled, and one day fell off
like a scab

this time Jeanine is not so lucky
thousands of copper and ebony striped feathers
litter the pen, collecting in corners
a few slip through the wire, drift across the snow
one undisturbed egg is their final offering

somewhere
a weasel licks blood from its fur
curls itself around its full belly
and rests