by Lisa Mecham
Screaming. A train.
The neighbor leaving her in the woods.
Through the branches: moon, lake, the light. Deadeye slits.
The wind blows. The trees stand.
How they always have. How they always will.
Stacked stones, thick branches for roof. Pine needles for floor.
Fish caught silver, slippery. Raw flesh, soft scales spat to the ground.
Long grey coat, hat pricked with a majestic pin.
Her forced to all fours. Like the animals do.
Him doing it, again and again.
A stick she fashions to a point and thrusts into him asleep.
The clothes she keeps. The beast left to bloat in the sun.
Pile of white bones.
A nest, her stone hut.
The trees, their bare boughs.
Legs cast apart and days of dried blood.
The baby pulled out and up to her heart.
The sound it made once. The meaning she gave it.