Since You Left Us for the Isle of Women

There was a trail in the woods in the industrial outskirts and I remember real good how it had contradictory signage both campsites and restricted access wild edibles and too many traces of humans. Some men in work clothes on bicycles were darting around the shadows avoiding the trail cameras and then in a crash and tumble of higher branches falling I’d got a knife to my stomach like I’d come to know how the whitetail felt when Davy was out of buckshot and took him down with his Bowie. I’m always calm when I get mugged. Like that deer. I know it’s running through the muggers’ heads like a fever I can just look on, poor bastard, don’t know if he’ll kill me or not. What poor bastard come to pull a knife on another creature not knowing if he’s come to kill or what. What I mean to say is that nothing’s been the same since you left us for the Isle of Women. It’s been placid, this side of the knife, seeing you run from one cave to the next knowing myself when the boat leaves and not at all so attached to my wallet. I can see you can’t decide my fate, either, but I know what yours will be. Nothing’s been the same since you left us, not knowing what you’ve gone there to do, what you’re willing to do to make off with someone else’s skins.

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