Think of her as not here, Lord. Only a thin pencil stroke from the last bonfire, only the salt-crust from a storm's last heave. Day after day, she picks splinters out of her hair or covers her face in a quilt arranged by the sea. Even these, Lord, she would prefer. But when you lob lockets filled with hair wreaths of disaster, she turns into a backyard of landmines— except she's made to understand such munitions are not for her to deploy, but to detonate or dispose. But if you think of her at all, Lord, deliver a vision untouched by talons except as they swiftly alight on an arm extended in trust to the air. Stroke on her torn cheek a camphor blessing. Adorn her with hornbill earrings.