The Girl in the Pink Dress

In memory of Karyme

The bullet was sleek, copper-colored,
when he loaded it into the gun.
Once in her head, it blossomed
into a fatal flower with jagged petals
and a sulfurous fragrance,
while its casing fell to the ground.

She fell too, by the side of the path,
gagging as the vomit filled her throat
and dribbled into her glossy hair,
now knotted and tangled with twigs,
her sleeveless dress streaked with dirt,
her tender brain on fire.

As her breathing slowed,
the bullet blazed a path across her mind,
lighting a match to her memories,
that parade of pictures,
all the people and places,
the history that made her Karyme.

It burned through
the outfit she bought
for graduation that Tuesday;
it burned through
her college acceptance letter,
her dream of wearing scrubs.

The last time she and her sister
got their nails done
and the crazy colors they chose;
that day she got the roses
tattooed on her ankle;
it was all scorched, charred.

Her aunts and uncles,
her cousins, her friends,
their sweet faces melted to nothing;
her own face grew blurry, blistered,
until she no longer knew
what she looked like.

Her mother’s eyes, and the love
they reflected, began to flare,
like the fear that came
with the boyfriend’s gifts –
designer bags, expensive shoes – 
and the terrible suspicions.

Her father’s eyes, and the pride
they reflected, began to sizzle, 
like the carne asada he made for her
and was keeping warm
as she was led past the playground
and into the woods.

The black scarf with white flowers
that she loved to wear,
that her boyfriend pulled from her hair
as they walked through the trees,
that he used as a blindfold;
it smoldered, shriveled.

Last to go was the day just ended,
working the reception desk
in the lobby of the senior place,
him in one of the visitor chairs,
staring for hours so she couldn’t
concentrate, couldn’t get away.