Then the last being fell away from my face into the blindness
of shadow.
On my tongue words took the shapes of semen.
I was bruised all over, but I opened my eyes one final time.
There were the ferns.
There was the oak tree dripping rain.
I confused the shine near my throat, its sharp edge,
with a difficult ridge in the Sierra, some escarpment. . .
And where is the tangible part of me?
Torn blue jeans and tangled white nylon underpants
in a brown paper bag.
The district attorney asks my husband to identify my green
down jacket, blood crusted at the neck.
Poor man. He touches the label.
He brushes his cheek with the back of his hand.
He steps down.
And I am long since gone into the sad prison of emulsion
and paper.
I stare forever from police photographs,
the struggle, the long cut,
not knowing why I am here.