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.