…warm bled red

My little hen, Kemosabe. Her warmth bled red, from a half-moon
neck…now giblet gravy. Suffering not the gruel of legumes and
congee. What’s dead, stays dead, married to the kudzu…You can
rinse away the water, but you can’t wash away the mud…or tune
out the lungs of the cicadas and lost souls. Who claim the bayou.
My little hen, Kemosabe. Her warmth bled red.