The coroner asked if she drank, her throat swollen
to closing, front and back embracing the shape perhaps
of a mouth around a screw-top bottle, or lips sucking
juice from a too ripe pear. I could have told him
late afternoon worked best for her, lips to rim,
her arm from the window, yardarm, her armistice
with the day, the orange of her nails a slow tick of sins
along the window frame. I could have told him
we anchor ourselves by things seen, how late night
my father would come, taking her temperature
with a licked finger to the forehead, a concentrated
measure of essence and heat. Again and again
he bent to her, a steady bow of prayer, as if
he were bobbing for apples, or pears
ripe enough to sink his teeth into.
Printed with permission by Jennifer Beebe, copyrighted by Jennifer Beebe @ 2011. This piece first appeared in Issue No. 10 of the Los Angeles Review.
