His Gravy
by Susan Hoffman


He turned the headless, purple bodies
almost tenderly in the hot oil,
the heavily blackened iron skillet
transforming their last frantic flight from him
into a family supper of wild dove
and white gravy stirred from their dark juices.

He ate the soul of their winged freedom
the same way he dove head first
into a deep, dark hole in the river,
cracking his skull on rocks,
blood running down his face,
ready to do it again,
hungry for something he
could never name.






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