after Brigit Pegeen Kelly
The eye was open, and wide, and writhed in a wretched way,
Not as a marble would roll out of a child’s hand, no, it writhed
Like a worm would away from its halved self. What had once been
White was no longer milk white, but rather the wrong white
Of pus dribbling from a wound, or maybe it was milk white,
But curdled milk, milk from no mother, and it never stopped
Its movement as it had no need for breath, nor could it blink,
Lidless as it was, exposed. To watch its watch was sickening,
Staring out from its socket in the sycamore tree. Inward. Out.
Every gaze goes as such. But this was no gentle gaze. Because
The woman who stood before the tree and the man on his knees
Before her were both naked, their clothes strewn like leaves
Across the forest floor, the woman bleeding, the man bleeding, too.
She stepped forward, slowly, one foot and then the other,
As if she had practiced this walk, she walked around the man, ignoring
How her wounds dripped down to the ground, and, reaching the tree,
She reached toward the eye. You might think its hollow would be
Rough to the touch as the tree trunk, but when she hooked her fingers
Inside, she found it to be womb-wet, warm, flexing against her,
Not wood at all but living flesh encased inside its bark,
And, skin slicking against the meat, she reached inside
Further still, first with only her fingers but soon past her wrist,
Feeling for what tethered the eye, if it could be called tethered,
Darting from side to side, twitching and restless, like a twanged string,
Or a bird’s frantic heart. You can’t imagine how it felt. Even the air
Clenched its throat. The woman began to tear the eye
From the hollow of the tree that housed it, putting her shoulders and back
Into it, pulling hard, twisting with her fingers, until finally
The eye came free and the tree gaped open as a wound where
It once had been, glimpse of humid red within. And then
The man shivered, began to shake. As if even with his head bowed
And his own eyes closed, he still could not keep himself
From knowing the woman now held the eye in her hand, like his,
But smaller, standing between himself and the tree, and them both
Between himself and the forest’s sharper corners, the sycamore tree
And its shadow cutting a swathe through the sunlight to join them,
Clover nestled at the sycamore’s feet and darkness nestled
Beyond, and past that was the stream crossed to be here, and the knife tossed aside,
Which had fit just as easily in one hand as the other, and had worked
Just the same, the blade shrill and bright, the vulture heavy against the sun,
High noon casting midnight’s shadows—no,
There are no new shadows, all of them sun-bleached by the next day,
Recycled every night, and so that means there are no true secrets,
Every thing known, nothing forgiven, nowhere to house or hide
Shame—and then the woman turned to face the man who knelt
Before her, who would not face her in return, his eyes remaining down
Even as she forced open his jaw with one hand and the eye into
His mouth with the other, and he clenched his throat against it,
His throat making a gk gk gk gk gk gk sound, not quite choking
But accommodating, and the tree’s hole also echoing gk gk gk gk gk,
Sap dripping down the cypress’ side like a drain . . . Things
Dissolve in water. The knife will corrode in the river bed, red rust
Replacing any trace of blood, and blood will wash away from hands,
Water keeping its many secrets, and water collecting itself
Below the man’s eyes, gathering like dew—water wanting to be
Washed down—and the man finally swallowing, finally filled.
Does a passing deer watch? Yes, a deer watches all of it. Guiltless,
The vulture laughs. And now the woman
Steps away. The man groans in something other than hunger
And stumbles as he stands, looks around for the nearest
Set of clothes regardless of who had worn it before, his body
Suddenly different now, his center of balance skewed
With this new weight, and the tree’s hollow slowly blinks shut,
Sealing into a pale scar, its core once again concealed, though rusty
Sap stills scabs down its roots as if they were thighs spread wide,
Wide as the man’s eyes. He has three now, and he sees everything
They see, even the one rolling inside him that can never close,
Seeing only shadows. Again and again he will try to look away,
Distract himself with sorrows or shame, but he can’t stop staring inside
His chest, where, sheltered in his rib cage, a tree has begun to grow.
