TheBurg

05.15 | The Burg | 47 3 poeMs By STePhANIe ruBrIghT Hidden in THe ForesT e entrance to the walking trail is framed by overgrown bushes. It is daunting, spewing out its sinister aura into my backyard as the forest tries, fruitlessly, to rid itself of an illness. e entry looms whenever I stare from my kitchen window. Years ago, deep along the path, my hiking partner barked, a muffled cry of thrill as she tried to lift a discovery with her teeth. I approached, she dropped the skull; its hollowed holes gazed up at me. Moving a fallen branch, I made out brittle hips and a shattered hand. I kneeled with a hand over my nose, anticipating a smell I knew would not be there. Slices of a yellow fabric lingered— clothing I'd find at a thrift store, tangled with bones, knotted tendrils of hair still attached. I draped my jacket over the butchered heap, a long forgotten killing; my path felt poisoned. e dog whined, tail eager, waiting for my consent to take a cursed white stick home. My muscles stiffened, I made us turn around, and we followed the trail back without stopping. vesUviUs Sparks settle far along the fields below me. e light lingers for a moment, dims, then sizzles out as small puffs of smoke rise. Beneath the earth's crust, my heart pulsates on newly born beats as my brood runs down the length of me, crawling and swallowing all. My mouth billows smoke, lava flows from my veins. Blackened ground crumbles as I crack the sky. Pumice falls down and a torrent of fire drenches creatures, burning ash in their mouths as I bluster. Panicked birds take flight as smothered screams replace their songs. Flames shine down on my shadow's residents as I make this land mine again. Herculaneum will be their grave. e world bleeds fire and dust. I can hear the people calling out to their gods who suffocate beside them. Heat scorches their eyes, blistering their skin. eir ashen hands claw at their throats, desperately trying to draw one last breath. A silence soon comes, with bodies buried deep. For centuries I stand, new pests making homes upon my forgotten neighbors. Ruined villas and narrow, uneven streets hide under legions of ash. Had the winds blown differently, the city may Have been spared and not filled lungs with stone. HUnTinG season I treaded carefully in the snow. e target struggled, its limbs branching wildly before it abandoned any hope of freedom. e salty language that escaped its mouth made me certain it would never speak again. Dragging my trophy, I headed toward the road. e hunting-season climate emptied the roads, and my animal is innocent, unguarded as the snow. I loom behind them, remarkably tempted. ey never move. I am certain I have perfected the art in the undervalued quiet. Bare branches conceal my shadow with theirs as I creep, eager for the assault. My façade is abandoned. It laid in my car unrestrained and drugged, abandoning its fear. e meat goes bad when they die scared, alone on the road. ree, seven, ten minutes of resistance and the bitter salt would transform the meat into something inedible. Heavier snowfall makes me drive slower. Makes my hunger thick, branching throughout my body. e party tonight will be divine for certain. I pluck, rip, twist the ocher skin in the certain way that will ensure most of this creature will not go abandoned in the trash. It's a savage pleasure branching into a civil skill that I have refined in the kitchen. It erodes even the most vile aspects of the task. e grinded meat I cup like a snowball, and when the oven beeps, I taste, then add some salt. e broth is golden, with flecks of green parsley and salted with cubes of white chicken breasts. Matzo ball soup is certainly a suitable appetizer for tonight's company. Snow white spheres bob along the surface of the soup and I abandon my apron for more suitable attire. Outside of my house, the roads light up under headlights. e tenderloin with marrow sauce decorated like branches. Rid yourself of the Soylent Green notion and enjoy. e branch of a family tree trimmed for the meal; lamb saltimbocca with marsala sauce; salt to taste. My table is set and the first course is a success. All roads to hell must lead here certainly, their innocence abandoned out there in the snow. I implore my guests to branch out, even if they may not be certain what ey are putting in their salted mouths, abandoning their instinct. I enjoy the hunting season on my back roads covered with snow. My kitchen is always open to friends. Stephanie Rubright is a junior English major at Penn State Harrisburg.

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