EXCESS

RITA MOOKERJEE

 
 

The fox’s paws on the feathered coop floor
make no sound against the cicada
static and cricket shriek. The hens flutter
in repose the fox shadowslinks sniffing
the perimeter of the henhouse. One
wakes up. The insect hum shakes the walls the
fox’s claws against the weak wood scraping
downy debris under clusters of hens
and while the cicadas debate beneath
the hot moon threatening to slice the night
the fox in a tender circle pulls the
hen canines over neck bones a perfect
clamp. She does this four times makes slight work of
tendons cartilage but leaves the fourth
chicken head with its glossy eye in the
smell of wet panic. Some of the birds are
still asleep somehow.

 

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