I was standing in the shower.
I was tugging my fingers through wet warm knots of hair
when I remembered: tiny girl,
the darkest eyes. She was the color
of a bosc pear. I remember
she stood in my doorway once,
her small brown mouth full of whipped cream.
She laughed and white ran down her chin.

It is brilliant and horrible
when things you already know
rearrange themselves.
It was standing in the shower
that I somehow let her reweave herself.
Her father, ugly and nervous,
pulling me into the hall. I had forgotten
how strange his face had seemed.
When I found her, she was curled
into a little lump on her mattress
on the floor.