when i begin to sketch her rough edges
there will be a small round hole
the size of a pen pushed through paper
where the heart beat

one of her eyes, the right one, will be
gone or closed.

her hair will be long, like in the picture she didn't know someone took.

her hands will be relaxed so you can see
the wide U of her nail beds
the map of the back of one hand
blown up large to show the blue river veins.

this story is intergenerational so i should include
a line from one of her mother's letters, documented warning of early death

and him. he has to be somewhere, a thread of unwound nightmare.
perhaps in or near the hole of her heart or the x-ray of her first broken rib
laid over her pregnant belly like fog.

i'll find a scrap of fine cotton, because it breathes.

there will be a picture of seven white walled rooms. i don't think of her outside.
and i need to find the bridge of teeth
she hid in the bathroom cupboard at night.

also the packet of powdered drink she turned to dust on
the whole page will smell of peeled oranges.