Another corpse left by the Housatonic,
no bubbles left for her mouth;
moths that dance on her legs.
Through day, through moonlight,
the scene couldn’t make its mind up—
scourged her now, and glared—or
then, it soothed, and ate her slowly.
We searchers could not make
our own minds to find her; then,
when found, to photograph her;
photographed, whether or not
to carry her back to the husband
for him to claim her, so he
could have his own cry at her.
-2004
