waver a pulse of rain, the evening
shallow and plasmic like an artificial
pond in late winter. The after-dinner
mint foil by her hand, waterlogged,
eyes the photographer’s lens.
Soil. Her left shoulder forms a cusp
of moon. She is anonymous,
like rigor mortis, the feral odor
of latex. Police lines throat a yellow
ring-a-round the rosie. She: bloodless
stump, the slaughtered doe.
Distant lightning glistens car hoods,
the coroner’s black shoes, her red
nails, the stillness of freckled skin.
