I knew where she would be sleeping. She stares. She looks feverishly around. In the cell beneath the City Hall. I can barely hear. Perhaps she’d been watching the TV, or listening to the radio. My silvery entrails falling, rotten and torn, from my belly. I tell her what He did. She should know me. Alone now, in that huge bed. I tell her how we kissed and made love and how I lay between His legs in the foaming water and how he took me to the mountain and how He killed me. She tries to speak. She is whispering my name, Again and again and again. I tell her how much I wanted it and how much He loved it. To see what He wanted, what He took, what I let Him have. My hands, my tortured hands: their broken bones and gouged nail holes that weep slowly to my finger-tips.
