Out of pine-crusted hill,
where wild turkeys once
galumphed from tree
branch to tree branch,
you towered over the cabin.
Maybe that’s why they
picked you, the beetles.
With sleek, missile-like bodies,
they drilled inside you,
metastasizing, creeping

inward, secreting sticky
poison that dripped down
your sides, warding off
intruders. They would not
share. They bored through
your bark as slices of sky
shone through your needles.
They fed on your curved lines
and soft middle. They devoured
you, like marrow sucked

from bones. “Any day
now, that tree is going
to fall on the cabin.” My
husband heaved a chainsaw
and tied a rope around
your middle. No matter,
you were already choking.
He yanked the pull cord:
chainsaw teeth buzzed,
smoke curled from

motor, and the alligator
mouth dug into you.
Mother of tree trunks,
I heard the crack as you
plummeted, rolled toward
the cabin, and nearly…