She never learned the 60% rule,
hungry swarms disappearing.
Small insects under her skin,
no place for strangers.
Cracking pistachios late October,
a bumble of dogs bark at the fish truck.
She was arrested for public indecency,
a memory, bare arsed in a sacred place.
Time was up. At the border
she never heard church bells.
The day stripped naked, intersecting
her space with signs.
The sun more pink now. She swatted
it flat and bloody with her hand.