By Christine Hamm
Water under, water over. Your postmortem
showed disappointment slash ignorance about
the pool of black teeth under the living room,
and erasure as avoidance of reproduction.
That night, you forgot to say affection was unstuck
from our hands, tongues, windpipes, and indifference
was found exactly by the GPS in our overturned
car by the bridge. I was telling the truth when I said
I rolled you into the river, all fat and aftermath.