Plank

C told V what K told her and this is how she knew. What was it

like on the ship? Memory spikes from the bed of thought,

and though K was belly level on the boat, she caught

angles through the clothes worn soft edits to the manifest:

buried at sea. It was the tipping of the board held fast, the sliding

off, that V kept clear, that she tried to keep clear of while she sat

with her casted foot held up and waited out the length of another

Lent. I gave up driving, I gave up my own two feet. Think what

those people went through. She kept her eyes fastened on the sepia

skirts of the turn of the century, the last century, the x’s on the fore-

heads in lead instead of ash, until the six weeks were up.