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 writhedLike a worm would away from its halved self. What had once beenWhite was no longer milk white, but rather the wrong whiteOf pus dribbling from a wound, or maybe it was milk white,But curdled milk, milk from no mother, and it never stoppedIts 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. BecauseThe woman who stood before the tree and the man on his kneesBefore her were both naked, their clothes strewn like leavesAcross 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, ignoringHow her wounds dripped down to the ground, and, reaching the tree,She reached toward the eye. You might think its hollow would beRough to the touch as the tree trunk, but when she hooked her fingersInside, 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 insideFurther 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 airClenched its throat. The woman began to tear the eyeFrom the hollow of the tree that housed it, putting her shoulders and backInto it, pulling hard, twisting with her fingers, until finallyThe eye came free and the tree gaped open as a wound whereIt once had been, glimpse of humid red within. And thenThe man shivered, began to shake. As if even with his head bowedAnd his own eyes closed, he still could not keep himselfFrom knowing the woman now held the eye in her hand, like his,But smaller, standing between himself and the tree, and them bothBetween himself and the forest’s sharper corners, the sycamore treeAnd its shadow cutting a swathe through the sunlight to join them,Clover nestled at the sycamore’s feet and darkness nestledBeyond, 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 workedJust 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 hideShame—and then the woman turned to face the man who kneltBefore her, who would not face her in return, his eyes remaining downEven as she forced open his jaw with one hand and the eye intoHis mouth with the other, and he clenched his throat against it,His throat making a gk gk gk gk gk gk sound, not quite chokingBut accommodating, and the tree’s hole also echoing gk gk gk gk gk,Sap dripping down the cypress’ side like a drain . . . ThingsDissolve in water. The knife will corrode in the river bed, red rustReplacing any trace of blood, and blood will wash away from hands,Water keeping its many secrets, and water collecting itselfBelow the man’s eyes, gathering like dew—water wanting to beWashed 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 womanSteps away. The man groans in something other than hungerAnd stumbles as he stands, looks around for the nearestSet of clothes regardless of who had worn it before, his bodySuddenly different now, his center of balance skewedWith this new weight, and the tree’s hollow slowly blinks shut,Sealing into a pale scar, its core once again concealed, though rustySap 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 everythingThey 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 insideHis chest, where, sheltered in his rib cage, a tree has begun to grow.