Hill of Beans
The doughnut shop isn’t up to code; danger makes a delicious dish. Here, hello is flash-fried catfish.
Go ahead, eat up, hushpuppy. When we leave our fruit trunk side, a woman in the far right lane does all she can to tell us. When we walk the dog after dark and take a photo of the moon peeking up above a steeple to tickle orgiastic sheets of stained glass, some man across the street asks, Y’all from around here? We were, a long time ago. The dog pulls on his leash. He points behind us, says, That’s a black church. Disappears up the street. He isn’t much older than my brother.