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.

Copyright 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.