by Karen Stromberg

A black Silverado intersected
her Saturday night plans
at Grape and Normal. It’s my job
to stand behind the white van
and hold her steady:
her shirt pulled up over her bra,
her head tipped back against my neck,
so the Medical Examiner
can photograph the long bite
of the seat belt.

At every flash of the camera
thin metallic threads
gleam in her crumpled shirt
and her hair,
her long dark floaty hair,
smells like lilacs.

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