I tore the name from the act first. Then it was a tongueless bell, a lone exodus I made from a night, my unassembled limbs pinned like sky on glass.
In the morning I stood beside myself as a mangled dream twisting in fever. The sun was a knife slanting in near the foot of my bed. I had no interest in being found—by the name, the truth day brings—so I stripped and under wet heat I began the process of burial.
First, I refused to name what happened. Then it did not have a story.