"Blood is thicker than water" was never the full story. This is about the covenant bonds forged in spirit, not womb—how some strangers come carrying the medicine your family never could. It’s about the holy weight of choosing yourself, the grief of walking away, and the miracle of being held by those who were never asked to but did anyway. This is family, reborn.

At five years old, I watched a voodoo priestess enter my kitchen and awaken something in me I’d never forget. My mother called it imagination. But my body knew better. There Was a Dead Chicken in the Middle of the Kitchen Floor is a visceral, poetic remembrance of ancestral power, psychic inheritance, and the kind of truth that can’t be silenced—even when it’s denied.