Nothing Is Ever Certain.

My Name Is Salmon, Like The Fish; First Name, Susie. I Was Fourteen When I Was Murdered.

She No Longer Believed In Talk. It Never Rescued Anything.

Hey, Ocean Eyes,” My Father Said. “where’d You Go On Us?

It Was Buckley, As My Father And Sister Joined The Group And Listened To Grandma Lynn’s Countless Toasts, Who Saw Me. He Saw Me Standing Under The Rustic Colonial Clock And Stared. He Was Drinking Champagne. There Were Strings Coming Out From All Around Me, Reaching Out, Waving In The Air. Someone Passed Him A Brownie. He Held It In His Hand But Did Not Eat. He Saw My Shape And Face, Which Had Not Changed-the Hair Still Parted Down The Middle, The Chest Still Flat And Hips Undeveloped-and Wanted To Call Out My Name. It Was Only A Moment, And Then I Was Gone.

Once Released From Life, Having Lost It In Such Violence, I Couldn’t Calculate My Steps. I Didn’t Have Time For Contemplation. In Violence It Is The Getting Out That You Concentrate On. When You Begin To Go Over The Edge, Life Receding From You As A Boat Recedes Inevitably From The Shore, You Hold On To Death Tightly, Like A Rope That Will Transport You, And You Swing Out On It, Hoping To Land Away From Where You Are.