They found my daughter in the weeds,
her panties tied around her neck
like a scarf.
Bruises darkened the small moons
of Karen's breasts. Her teeth were scattered,
her lower jaw broken.
Ten years later the murderer's
attorney begs for clemency.
His lawyers have taught the SOB
the word remorse, which he repeats
as if it were on a teleprompter.
What good would it do they ask
to kill him? Would it bring
"the victim" back?
No, roots and potatoes you pull
alive from graves, not a seventh grader
with braces on her teeth.
Anti-execution protesters
wave their signs, and the bastard's face
is on every tv screen, as well scrubbed
as any first year law student's.
When they slip poisons into his veins
they won't bury my grief.
I know that. But how do I forget
my daughter's scent,
mixed forever now with mud
and earth?
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