— for Lauren—

In my violet, I relive her pallid face in the casket,
skin notably unpierced. Frida’s Wounded Deer,
too, wanted relief, release from arrows. She fixed it

above her headboard, told me & the deer her secrets
as I laid in her friend’s bed after nights of cheap beer.
In violet, I re-alive her pale face in that casket

of a basement bedroom after everyone else left
for the day, sun crawling down the old stairs.
Us two wanting relief, release from arrows. She fixed

her hair & then coffee. Frida’s deer was a wedding gift
but this she was alone, sad, wounded. I felt her speared
in her violet, reeled at her pillaged face in the casket—

bad mascara & priest’s prayer. She would’ve hated it.
I couldn’t ask how she did it. Couldn’t bear
the wound, really. As they relaced a rose & fixed

flowers, her mother’s hands shook. I couldn’t ask
what happened to her, what made her love the deer,
the violence. I relive her pulled face in the casket,
her wanting relief. Any release of arrows to fix it.