She presses her forehead with a napkin, looks out the slit of the door into the foggy light. Hair undone, damp. She is poised. In the suitcase: a pearl comb, a plum-colored blouse, a gun folded in old meat wrappers.
This is how to undo a knot behind the back.
Blind-folded in an open field.
What exposes the buried: secrets exchanged through cupped hands, along the length of a sword held cursive to the throat. Fragments of gas lamps, shovels embracing what is left. What is left?
The feeling of late winter when there is no winter.