gives back the years I lost to grief and there are

many. Both years and bodies.

I’ll never be older than I was at 19.

I CAN’T WATCH WOMEN DIE IN MOVIES ANYMORE

Scene One

I grew up with Dateline and the waxing gibbous and

my grandmother. Learned early on that it’s the lovers

you need to dust for fingerprints. There were months

where Dolly and I watched Nancy Grace until the

backs of our eyelids felt like swimming pools of

battery acid, reflecting the murders we discussed over

sundaes and night lights. Back then we slept with our

doors open, creating a maw that yawned into static,

rupturing the silence. The dark was more than enough

privacy. I didn’t need to be wrapped up, locked into it.

All I’m saying is that I used to fall asleep to CSI

Miami, we binge-watched Law and Order SVU, and

now whenever I see a woman onscreen, sobbing into

carpet, losing her self, I have to look away. My fear is

a cold case that refuses solving, pressing against my

tongue like a word I can no longer remember. And, of

course, empathy has swollen to overtake my life,

triggered by grief after grief unbearable. I can feel it,

the men and their red hands, gripping my legs,

holding a blade to the soft parts.

Scene Two

Anxiety is a Wikipedia page with hundreds of

sources, a list of victims that I read one by one,

savoring the syllables, honoring their names. I’ve

stared into the computer-screen eyes of a killer and

convinced myself that I could do it. I could point to

the most charismatic person you’ve ever met and tell

you where he buries his ghosts. The exact words he

said to get them there. I could tell you everything and

still make the wrong decision.

Scene Three

Dolly and I would call across the hall to one another

about who we thought did it. We examined the clues,

the crime scenes, the predictable twists and herrings.

She told me once that if she had the chance to redo her

life she’d go into forensic science. She said I’d love to

work in the labs, analyze the data. Soon after this

confession, our show fading into temporary

resolution, her breath grew deeper and lazier, drifting

towards the bright face of her television. My brave

and unfazed grandmother — unable to fall asleep

without canned sitcom laughter in the background. If

only she’d known how fearless she was. Can forensics

determine why I only began cringing at the violence

once she was dead? Why I can’t predict any endings

without her?

Scene Four

The evidence my body committed to muscle memory

now aches in tandem with my loneliness. When I’m

handed the blindfold, reeking with her perfume, I say

thank you. I tie the knot myself.

ANOTHER POEM ABOUT GRIEF, BUT NOW IT OWNS PROPERTY