Her self-talk after death by natural causes

He said having children was a mistake. He wanted quiet

labourers, no ideas of their own. Made me

a holy lamb martyr.

A noble jewel, a dog’s ass.

Rooms in his motel vacant for months of the year. I always owed

him damages. Life has a way of dealing. My hands, coin-stacks

for his coin-slot eyes.

Bottomless sad slot. I tried, for Christ’s sake.

I’m not cursing. Nerves scavenge

for tossed crusts. Flock inland when his barometer drops. We could talk

to each other. Too much energy to think

sometimes. Gulls whitening grey light with black wingtips.

Not often attack birds. Soar or walk in shrill crowds, necks throbbing,

ready to steal. They say gulls gouge flesh from cresting whales,

and are generalist feeders: eat the dead, eat the living.

I loved him. That’s all I can say. Meeuw. Mouette. Mew. Un-mute. Unstrung,

we capsized, lacerated by gravel, a rockbed,

fast water. Fear of his flares—knees about to buckle. His unhinging-jaws

gulped large prey. Stupid

stupor, I didn’t dodge.