She cannot translate darkness
from those days when the sun only exaggerates
cold, only teases with its light. The blank 

scrim separating her from us does not give forth
a familiar word or shape to fill
in with pointillist tools or hatched lines. It stares 

back without a batting, no shadow limbs
to move behind it, without one
eyelash dropping free 

on her cheek. She can only see as far
as it opens before her—all of a life truncated
at 22, more than twice that
number of years swinging 

without interpretation. What tongue
do the dead whisper in as they do the math?