I’m looking back. God, I always look back—a recycled Lot’s wife in soft sfumato. Gazing at my captors or my father, all manacles and forceps and the well-smithed crab claw. No, scorpion tail! My hair’s a shackle of snails, sin-of-torture washed, a blue shawl eternally falling from restoration-chest. It’s dark behind: men are mysteries, in sum. My lips parted. As. If. Saint me, yes, but don’t draw me this way. Pink ribbon virgin when I died— no matter how many eyes stabbed through me first.