They try to identify her by markings
that are not plotted on the map
of the conversation on the slippery couch
scan them for something you call recognition
knowing full well the purple of her,
borrowed from you to place on a pedestal
like you promised her boyfriend & of course,
missing in the description you share with them
like you ever intend to find her.
She was last seen on a on a dvd menu
repeating itself impatiently for hours
before the film could begin; was wearing a flannel shirt
loose at the wrists and not rolled in the rush.
Your toothbrush is still damp but no DNA
has been taken. A candle had tipped, wax
coagulating fronds of a silk reed arrangement
in the corner, curling a few edges black.
She keeps strawberry bidis in a box of Blacks;
answers to No One and has a tattoo
on the inside of her elbow—a star
with bullet points at each of its tips.