I came to the field where last I fed your flesh to stones, before the boys spooned you out and the river pinned you down. Teeth to teeth, mud to mud. I found a blue child, face down in the grass. Her skin unimpressed by the sun. A hot sound moved through her—forgiveness, ticking. I meant to shovel her from the earth but she cracked like a milk plate. I am a troubled woman. I am forgetful. I recall nothing of your voice. Only your smile that danced like static each time you spoke. The blood wind lifting your face when I’d press. Now there is dirt on everyone. A house of dark confessions hived beneath our fur.