Turkeys for Christmas

they queue at the ballot box

like turkeys voting for Christmas

clutching slogans carved into their skin

sold back their own fear at a markup

they mistake the butcher’s hand

for a promise of safety

mistake the knife for order

mistake the silence for peace

the right calls it freedom

but it tastes like hunger

it smells like smoke

it sounds like boots on gravel

and still, they march —

feathers ruffled, heads bowed —

towards the feast

where they are the feast