Mystery

My daughter asks if I ever read 
mystery or crime novels when I was younger.

I used to like this literary mystery series 
in which the main character 

is a literature professor in a little college town.
She becomes a de facto consultant for the local 

investigations unit after she helps them solve a case,
reading random fragments as part of a plot

that only begins to make sense 
when seemingly inconsequential details 

begin to take the form of intention. Close
reading, my own college professor called it. 

Meaning that takes shape behind the scenes, more 
quietly than the shock of a body found by a hedge

in the quad, face mangled beyond recognition.. 
Everything connects to some kind of story, 

though understanding takes time. Clues reside 
in throwaway comments, a letter misplaced, 

weird forms of construction that make characters 
sound other than themselves. Everyday conflicts 

leave careless traces. Warnings go unheeded.
Stories of grief date back, just as in the myths 

of old, to ancient grudges. When did you last 
see the missing woman, the murderer? Perhaps 

hiding in plain sight. Perhaps filling a hot bath
with bath salts or adding suspicious meats to a stew.