Hunting Season
the trees loom along the side of the road,
fall’s detritus, brown & sad,
hangs from branches listing slightly
with each puff of wind.
from beneath a sprawling oak
the woman-girl staggers
like a dazed doe into the road:
her frayed hem grazes the dirt, her bare feet.
stickers dot her bodice.
leaves tangle in her dark hair, a broken halo.
she absently brushes at her arms, dusky with bruises.
the blue pickup truck swerves into the center lane,
barely misses the wan figure
as she staggers onto the asphalt.
and she raises her hands,
faces the oncoming traffic
in surrender
or exhaustion
or elation.
she survives.
Cynthia K. Marshall
