a methodical song, hummed quietly into the
balsa walls of each miniature. nimble fingers
coax miniscule scenes into place: there, her
door shut tight and sealed with newsprint, all
egress cut off to hasten the rouging of her cheeks
from the fumes. or the girl in the closet, neck
grooved in red, no puddle of blood beneath her. o
heiress, you rule over these silent crimes, each
image made to train the ruthless to reimagine
justice, to establish order for working women
killed at home or church.
lessons in methodology, how to pluck each detailed 
monument to her private suffering from its
noxious and stifling stem. yet you are no
oracle, though you saw beyond your wealth,
privy to the protections afforded by money,
quelling those afforded by whiteness.
race, a liminal boundary, paint melting into
solvent, unseen. each doll’s porcelain skin
tinted to mimic the conditions of death. your
utmost attention, almost affectionate, to the
vividly lurid: a girl’s clothes rumpled, legs splayed,
whisps of hair in a pool of blood on the floor. an
x-ray into the ends of poor white women: 
yes, an obsession, like floral wallpaper or the petals of
zinnias. a prayer uttered under your breath.