Her name is written in the same stark
black letters on white as a newspaper obituary,
my finger following the loops and angles
with a familiarity that doesn't extend to her face.
I search my memory for a glimpse, a fragment
of this woman I should've known,
I must've known,
but the picture's distorted and slipping faster
like sand through my fingers
until the flash of maybe short blond hair
is buried under the barrage of grief
that I already can't remember her face
because I didn't even know her,
and that makes it all the sadder.
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