Afterwards it Was
LYN LIFSHIN
The closet her
mother couldnšt
pass, the floor
boards a burnt
sienna. Even
after a clean
up the police
barricades, tape
flannel still in
the shape of her
body on the floor
where she waited,
the gun in her
lips, watched
light come up
two days after
she shot at the
woman she sold
her house to
leave for South
Carolina with
who left after
their 17 years
left Jane with
her back aching.
Morphine was
losing its punch.
She waited under
flannel as tv
blared ŗlesbian
shoots loveršs
friend,˛ in the
upstate town where
she was town historian
She cocked the gun,
heard footsteps
her finger on the
trigger as the light
lost its softness
