It was easier than she thought, crashing the car 

named after a horse, brakes shaking like good 

dishes––their furious clatter in the cabinet all “thou shalt not” 

until Christmas, appearing each year like a cat dragging 

a mauled feather stole through the living room.

 

No one notices the blur on her shoulder, 

the slight upwelling of skin blooming beneath her veil. 

 

There is only her imperfect body––

economized into numb silence, a point of light 

over the doughy sky, suck of cells 

into the splintered fingers of God. 

 

Someone on the ground signing the familiar––

immortal as anything on earth.