I feel uneasy
in the Flannery
O’Connor forest,
myrtle and poison
ivy, oak flags
twitch where
they’re bound
to the leaf mat,
vaginal seam
up a beech tree.
Years ago, shots
like pots and pans,
belled hunting dogs
behind me—
the illusion
of consensual combat,
the beginning
of a long breach
that rooted deep
and earthed over.
