Hidden in the Forest
The entrance to the walking trail
is framed by overgrown bushes. It is daunting,
spewing out its sinister aura into my backyard
as the forest tries, fruitlessly, to rid itself of an illness.
The entry looms whenever I stare
from my kitchen window. Years ago, deep along
the path, my hiking partner barked, a muffled cry
of thrill as she tried to lift a discovery with her teeth.
I approached, she dropped the skull; its hollowed
holes gazed up at me. Moving a fallen branch,
I made outbrittlehips and a shattered hand.
I kneeled with a hand over my nose,
anticipating a smell I knew
would not be there. Slices of a yellow fabric lingered—
clothing I’d find at a thrift store, tangled with bones, knotted
tendrils of hair still attached. I draped my jacket over
the butchered heap, a long forgotten killing;
my path felt poisoned.
The dog whined, tail eager, waiting for my consent to take
a cursed white stick home. My muscles stiffened,
I made us turn around, and we followed the trail
back without stopping.
Vesuvius
Sparks settle far along the fields below me.
The light lingers for a moment, dims, then sizzles
out as small puffs of smoke rise.
Beneath the earth’s crust, my heart pulsates
on newly born beats as my brood runs down the length
of me, crawling and swallowing all. My mouth billows smoke,
lava flowsfrom my veins. Blackened ground crumbles
as I crack the sky. Pumice falls down and a torrent of fire drenches
creatures, burning ash in their mouths as I bluster.
Panicked birds take flight as smothered screams replace their songs.
Flames shine down on my shadow’s residents as I make this land mine
again. Herculaneum will be their grave.
The world bleeds fire and dust. I can hear
the people calling out to their gods who suffocate beside them.
Heat scorches their eyes, blistering their skin.
Their ashen hands claw at their throats,
desperately trying to draw one last breath.
A silence soon comes, with bodies buried deep.
For centuries I stand, new pests making homes
upon my forgotten neighbors.Ruined villasand narrow,
uneven streets hide under legions of ash.
Had the winds blown differently, the city may
Have been spared and not filled lungs with stone.
Hunting Season
I treaded carefully in the snow.
The target struggled, its limbs branching
wildly before it abandoned
any hope of freedom. The salty
language that escaped its mouth made me certain
it would never speak again. Dragging my trophy, I headed toward the road.
The hunting-season climate emptied the roads,
and my animal is innocent, unguarded as the snow.
I loom behind them, remarkably tempted. They never move. I am certain
I have perfected the art in the undervalued quiet. Bare branches
conceal my shadow with theirs as I creep, eager for the assault.
My façade is abandoned.
It laid in my car unrestrained and drugged, abandoning
its fear. The meat goes bad when they die scared, alone on the road.
Three, seven, ten minutes of resistance and the bitter salt
would transform the meat into something inedible. Heavier snowfall
makes me drive slower. Makes my hunger thick, branching
throughout my body. The party tonight will be divine for certain.
I pluck, rip, twist the ocher skin in the certain
way that will ensure most of this creature will not go abandoned
in the trash. It’s a savage pleasure branching
into a civil skill that I have refined in the kitchen. It erodes
even the most vile aspects of the task. The grinded meat I cup like a snowball,
and when the oven beeps, I taste, then add some salt.
The broth is golden, with flecks of green parsley and salted
with cubes of white chicken breasts. Matzo ball soup is certainly
a suitable appetizer for tonight’s company. Snow
white spheres bob along the surface of the soup and I abandon
my apron for more suitable attire. Outside of my house, the roads
light up under headlights. The tenderloin with marrow sauce decorated like branches.
Rid yourself of the Soylent Green notion and enjoy. The branch
of a family tree trimmed for the meal; lamb saltimbocca with marsala sauce; salt
to taste. My table is set and the first course is a success. All roads
to hell must lead here certainly,
their innocence abandoned
out there in the snow.
I implore my guests to branch out, even if they may not be certain what
They are putting in their salted mouths, abandoning their instinct.
I enjoy the hunting season on my back roads covered with snow.
My kitchen is always open to friends.
Stephanie Rubright is a junior English major at Penn State Harrisburg.
