The leaves refuse to fall

for a stranger. Escaping

is dangerous--a fox already

destroyed your henhouse.

        Don't pull the trigger.

Phlox serate your teeth

like venison on a sunday,

       just do it.

Like trigger-happy hysteria

in the stand where they found you

covered in ladybugs

stagnant under camo seat cushions

your body now star dusted with rust

and tears and bug spray.

Outside bucks trample what they mew

worthless. And the doe, thirty feet off

from the corn pile, ballistic bullet

kissing her breast, reveals herself

only to god and the exit wound.

Everything ends like this: a female

lost in the woods and the woods are more

alive than she is and the hunters are coming

as branches pull at her dress.

And so she is consumed

wholemeal or in pieces.

She is venison summer sausage

and sleeping in a coffin.

       Flora holds its breath,

       waits for the bang.