She likes her vegetables roasted black. She cooks chicken on the fire pit. She tears meat from bone with her teeth, eating fat, sometimes gristle. She smokes on the porch outside the bedroom, the clove fragrance haunting a torn wedding quilt. Her dog growls a low rumble at the spaniel picking its way through the yard next door. Her dog is all cat, creeping along the backs of sofas, leaping up on furniture, its long tail unfurling when it settles.
Her hands are claws, her hair a mane. She walks under the swaying Spanish moss and greets wading birds as tall as her shoulder. There is killing in the yard. Violent screams in the night. Something kills a bird – another bird, a gator. Some bird, an eagle, an owl takes its pick from a creature crawling through the grass. She can do nothing to save them and feeds none of them anything. She’s too old for that now. Not even God sees to such things.
First appeared in kaffe in katmandu