One minute she was dancing—a faint
layer of sweat, a tight blue dress—and then.
Her boyfriend said her death sounded
like humming, said he'd never put his hands
on love again. When God's not looking, X
and I scrape around for videos of this
woman's spontaneous combustion. We
don't really have to be quick about it—
God's blinks last a long while: X could twine
the beaks of twenty starlings and still have
time for a nap. I could wear a belt of figs
and mantis wings while begging X to
blow on my pink belly, and still—Hell, I
could sweep dirt under God's eyelid and
bear witness to the nothing that comes of it.