I remember her voice
lost, her hands floating from her sides uncontrolled like white doves in the dark house
Her eyes as pale-blonde as her hair and her skin
The night she vanished,
slipping along icy wooden tracks,
her waxy cream-pink hands, red-tipped fingers
the nails caked in mud
drowning, rescued, free, gone, and here again
paper flying through the sidewalks, not unlike
those hands
so cold and translucent
brushing along the wall paper
resting, and watching the printed scene, the bowl of fruit, like she was waiting for the pears
to move
following the lines of our bodies to the light in the corner
footprints in the dust on the ground
handprints in the dust on the wall
She was unable to know how to spark trouble
but she was always waiting
to get caught