Slipshod tread, plop – 

into a ready-made grave. 

 

Bethany’s tracks were

followed into the thicket, 

cynosure at its finest.

 

It takes a perfect creep

to pull off this kind

of abduction.

 

Larvae and forest

swathe her from head

to toe, wrists

and ankles broken –

necrosis, vulned cranium.

 

Piles of mud 

begin to gather

as she contorts,

little live wire.

 

The man with

the shovel begins

to whistle blithely –

another day

at the office.

 

 

Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal.