cold case

it's all a mystery
who murdered me
who murdered us
the first suspect is the deity
of course, the crime scene
is covered in sticky notes
offers too many clues
but no motive is conceivable
the stories inevitably conflict
everything embraced like
stones in a bracelet tiny
glass databits assembling
in the hooked memory
covering the now-cooling flesh
and the victim, me, hovers
in a fourth dimension, above
the corpse my only question is
why aren't you there also?

This one is current, working out an ancient metaphor. We were always talking about how we would destroy the other. There was always the possibility of *'s husband's violence. I like the image of my spirit self floating over the body, looking down on the sadness of the flesh, carne vale.