She Didn't Keep a Diary
She was the first to do it. Toeing cliff’s edge past where
the scenic spot was still safe, where the ledge marking
bluffside hikes to the right was graveled, dirtsunk at sides,
soon to be paved. They found her stiff and fixed where
branches received her crashing form. Her jeans were cuffed
at the ankle. Fifteen feet from the plunge they found her—
stories piled on stories up from the evenly spaced houses
where she played and snacked and slept in one, with three others.
When she ran then dove and the air gave way to feeling,
the local media had no reason to take notice. Not yet.
It was lunchtime, the air was heavy, and the extended forecast
called for the same, the same, always the same.
Her sister smoking in the backyard under the sumacs,
boys turning by on their bikes in the street, mother coming out
around noon to collect the mail. The morning she did it
her nails were still done from Thursday, her hair parted
to the left side for volume. From the outside in, there was
no falling in of the roof, no deck chair out of place. No lack
of apples on the table in the bowl for the grabbing. Just a man
and three women, square shouldered, deliberate.
On the afternoon of what would become known as the incident,
the day went down, the car pulled in, and nobody thought,
just yet, to make the call.