I no longer speak of bruises or the dresses that conceal them. I never understood how I got them, so I was never one to explain. I speak now of rain and the turning leaves, my marriage bed and complacency; cycle/recycle.

I don't speak of dead-mistakes. I pray for the wind to kick up and spread the names of the dead like rumors about the streets--the only act of levitation an ash can hope for.

My voice is changing.