Realize it’s special—the situation—
            not like your first time, or your last,
but special in the way of snowflakes.
            Remember he educated you in snowflakes, told you
No two alike and you believed him.
            As you wait for the body to harden
you may reflect, sit near the window.
            Watch frost weave its tapestries,
ice across the glass.  Press your index
            finger to its center, warm it, break it.
Now pull your finger back and look
            at the warm little mouth you’ve created, empty
but for the oily dips and whorls of your skin print.
            Then watch it grow, expand, like the flex
of pupils in darkness.
            And don’t worry about the fingerprints,
they won’t question you after you’ve turned him in.
            Ignore his cries—there are so many myths—
and when he swears his innoncene to you,
            believe him.