on a slab. a photo, in a file I wasn’t supposed to open.
your tongue, fat to the roof of your mouth, cheeks
gelatinous, eyes tied tight. skin, murky black
well-water. a clean, cotton
cloth draped just high enough to mask
excavation. I read what violence became of the un-photographed
stretches of your body, which neighbor alerted
the police to the trunk you were in. We still don’t know
exactly when we lost you. At your house, I counted
holes in the walls, searched for order in the splatter before
wiping it gone. I scrubbed and picked you from the fibers
of abused carpets, hoping to find a reason beneath the stains, but
instead I got bits of you beneath my fingernails.