where she died—days after a photo
              suggested she lived, proved it
as much as paper can prove
              anything, as much as a figure
with her hair and approximate
              body, sitting on the dock, facing away
from the camera, can look exactly
              like a lost dead girl. And far off right,
a barge, floating almost out of frame,
              with what may be a plane or just fallen
white wings loosened from flying
              too close to the sun above it,
low-hung clouds blurring the matte print
              into confession. It must have been
calm on Jaluit Atoll then, the boats refusing
              to raise their sails and the past
—a storm, always a storm—
              depends on a sharp receding hairline
and prominent nose of the navigator,
              his distinct features prove,
“This must be her.” Her
              slumped shoulders, her
far-off eyes grazing the steady water
              where we can’t see them.
Maybe a woman who reaches
              too high has to go
missing, has to be found
              without a face, has to be
identified only by the bodies and wings
              surrounding her, after all,
how many of us
              have been found anyway?