Locke, California, 1977

When they winch the dead girl up from
the Sacramento Delta, she doesn't
actually have wings, but her dress in muddy
shreds hanging beneath her looks like broken, soggy
shadows of wings, or perhaps elegant fins. What
is it about dead girls? They gather
all the attention. This time the girl is me. I am
turning and
turning in the cool air, that hook attached to the
pale blue
belt of my dress, my arms flung back in
abandon. You are the Chinese men in the back
of Al the Wop's bar, gambling. You throw down cards
and make your bet. I am the luck that clings to you
as you take the silt and wipe it from my eyes, dipping

your tongue into the crust of blood
in each ear. Death is like this, a sweet
abandon. Nothing can take away
this beauty. Still my eyes shine. Still
you win the hand. Men stooped over with
centuries of memory died to build the rails flashing
in
sunlight along this levee, men
who spoke not one
word of the language of this land. The trains run
every day over the spot where they died. No one hears
their name as they pass. And now I am, hanging
from the hook, silenced. You are
the bluff. You are
the one that risks
everything
for the shining
moment between us when you tie the weight
to my sash and throw me, turning
and turning, an unbalanced fan
of light in the sky,
in.
Even though
you are my killer, you know how to
love me.
You know I can swim.