by Karen R. Porter

From the wound
strange notes take flight
lifting to the sky
Her throat opens
letting out the crying birds.

She is the one
who always dies
alone and bloody
in a ditch,
in the shadows,
floating face-down
in the blackness
of a thawing river.

She is familar.
You know her
though you've never met
Her story
was in the news
every night
for six long weeks.

She is a runaway,
a little kid,
a teenage mom,
a woman with poor timing.
She works down the street.
She lives Next door.
You might even see her next time
you look in the mirror.