When the Innocent Are Sacrificed (Draft)

It wasn’t until I turned 22 that I was overpowered by the need to create—to express the deep emotional trauma that I felt. The only satisfying way to express that pain was through poetry. So, I wrote the raw feelings and emotions and condensed them into a cathartic poem.

My little friend, with your wobbly walk,

With your big, round eyes that blink with

Innocent sincerity,

I'm sorry.

When I was a little girl, I thought that there was something weird about eating meat. I didn’t know why or what made me think that way. I grew up eating beans stew with bacon and ham, stuffed turkey for Thanksgiving, a lamb for Christmas—meat was a part of every meal. Still, for some reason, I avoided it. I wasn’t old enough then to know that the cut of roasted beef on the dinner table was once a cow. I didn’t know how meat was actually produced.

I saw you the other week,

And you didn't look well. They still haven't

Bandaged the sore above your eye

Or cleaned the ground below your feet.

When I turned 22, I saw the truth behind the industry. I saw the pain that innocent creatures had to endure just so humans could satisfy a carnal desire. I didn’t understand why innocence was sacrificed in slaughterhouses when they didn’t have to be murdered at all. That realization changed my life.

             I noticed a new bruise on your shoulder

And a limp that makes you totter

Like a newborn child.

My poem which I called simply “Little Cow” resembled everything that I felt. It began with simply addressing the “child” that I was talking to. Each line in the poem references the child-like attributes that the cow had. I wrote, “Big round eyes that blink/with innocent sincerity” and “totter/like a newborn child” hoping to show rather than tell how I saw each animal.

My little friend, I wish that

It didn't have to be this way.

I wish that you wouldn't have to hear

As your kin scream when the people take

Them to slaughter.

They are beloved creations of a Heavenly Father. Even the LDS scriptures say how meat should be used only in times of winter or in famine which suggests that meat is only to be eaten when there are no plants left (D&C 89). They also say that “And wo be unto man that sheddeth blood or that wasteth flesh and hath no need” (D&C 49).

I saw you tremble in fear when

The child next to you was dragged

Away. And I saw your tears

When your mother fell and died

Last week. I cried too.

You don't deserve this pain.

As I wrote my poem I researched. Animals feel the same intensity of pain that humans can feel. When a cow is strung up by its feet and its neck is slit, it feels every second of it. A cow feels and understands the terror and fear of being murdered. The thought of humans—as moral agents and protectors of God’s animals—allowing them to go through such pain was sickening to me.

             And for what? What makes it so that

You are forced to suffer this life?

Why you? Why such an innocent child?

I couldn’t help but ask questions about the morality of the human race. How many people would actually beat, rape, and murder the animals that they eat? Why do those things suddenly become okay if it’s done on a factory farm instead? In my poem, I ask similar questions, hoping to prompt the people reading to wonder the same things.

             Just because your Spirit was born

With four strong legs and soft white

Fur instead of two legs and

A frail naked body? Why you?

Why do we force you to suffer

The intense horrors of slaughter

Just to satisfy our carnal desires?

In the stanza above, I ask a very important question. If we feel the same physical and emotional pains then why is it okay to mistreat and murder the creatures that we were given “dominion” over (Genesis 1:26)? To have dominion over something means to be a ruler over something. But we also learn that there is unrighteous dominion. We learn from hundreds of tyrannical leaders that unrighteous dominion ends in pain and terror for the subjects. A righteous leader provides protection and comfort for the subjects rather than uses them to “satisfy [their] carnal desires”.

And I know that you would

Go to those people and tell them to stop.

But they wouldn't hear you.

They can't hear.

Worst of all, people don’t seem to care even if they hear the screaming. They don’t bat an eye when pigs are boiled alive to remove the hair and skin from their bodies.

Instead, they would lick their lips,

Tear off your legs, and throw you

Onto a sizzling pan. Lick their lips as

Your fat bubbles under the heat.

Lick their lips as your life drains.

Oh, little friend, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Or maybe, people just don’t want to hear them scream. They don’t want to know the pain that they are inflicting on the innocent—on the very beings we were sent here to protect and care for. Maybe the taste of animal flesh is too good to bother thinking about the pain that an animal goes through.

I end the poem with the same line that ended the first stanza. “I’m sorry” because that is how I feel. I’m sorry that there is nothing that I can do other than personally avoid adding to their suffering. The words "I'm sorry" carry more weight than any other word in the poem. It expresses sorrow, anguish, dread, pity, and remorse all in two simple words. 

When I try to mention it to the people around me, I’m rewarded with scorn. People try to tell me that we were meant to eat meat and that they could never give it up because it tastes too good. They tell me that as a Mormon, I should eat meat. In my head, I think, “As a Mormon, I should only eat meat if I’m about to die of starvation.” But like the cow in my poem, I know that the people would never hear me. The line that says "they can't hear" also applies to how I am treated. For some reason, the concept of the sanctity of animal life is impossible to understand.

Reading my poetry, I can see how I processed through my emotions in my writing. The poem starts by simply addressing the cow. I express love and concern for her. The next stanza changes in tone. It changes to sorrow for the things that the cow has to experience. After that, the poem switches to anger and frustration before ending in disbelief and painful acceptance.

The poem embodies my journey of trying to understand the death of the innocence. Even now, I have no answer for the question of “Why?” But I can at least accept, that for some reason, not many care the same way I do. 

Little Cow

My little friend, with your wobbly walk,
With your big, round eyes that blink with
Innocent sincerity,
I'm sorry.
I saw you the other week,
And you didn't look well. They still haven't
Bandaged the sore above your eye
Or cleaned the ground below your feet.
I noticed a new bruise on your shoulder
And a limp that makes you totter
Like a newborn child.

My little friend, I wish that
It didn't have to be this way.
I wish that you wouldn't have to hear
As your kin scream when the people take
Them to slaughter.
I saw you tremble in fear when
The child next to you was dragged
Away. And I saw your tears
When your mother fell and died
Last week. I cried too.
You don't deserve this pain.


And for what? What makes it so that
You are forced to suffer this life?
Why you? Why such an innocent child?
Just because your Spirit was born
With four strong legs and soft white
Fur instead of two legs and
A frail naked body? Why you?
Why do we force you to suffer
The intense horrors of slaughter
Just to satisfy our
Carnal desires?

And I know that you would
Go to those people and tell them to stop.
But they wouldn't hear you.
They can't hear.
Instead, they would lick their lips,
Tear off your legs, and throw you
Onto a sizzling pan. Lick their lips as
Your fat bubbles under the heat.
Lick their lips as your life drains.
Oh, little friend, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.