We stood in the grey halls of
the arena my hand in
yours. the muted shouts of
the crowd, vicious and
bloodthirsty, threatened to
return me to the reality of
the cockfight we had just
left because as a boy of
eight, the blood was much
more red than i had
expected. and in the
shadows we passed an
old man, skin the color of
cocoa, holding a bird in his
lap. with his calloused
hands he carefully placed the
bluish grey intestines back
into its slashed abdomen—with the
casual air of the weary—and
then began to stitch. the
bird—probably the product of
generations of selective
breeding—stared silently barely
breathing. gone, now, all the rage
of the moment before the fight.

gone
now
all.