Hannah Cajandig-Taylor

Commercial Love Song for Forensic Files

Oh, Michelle, and Tamika, and Lisa, and every other dead girl that we must remember is a girl—I think I might love you. The detective called the case bogus—open and shut—even after a failed wellness check. One morning, after picking up the early morning paper, I scanned the front page of The Mining Journal to catalogue another name in my brain. There were no names of dead girls, only a story about Pepper the Poodle finally finding a home after spending his best years in the shelter. Do you find yourself lingering as a spirit in the eggshell halls of your house, Elizabeth? Joy, do you still wander the earth, looking for shelter? Sharon, who cut the best years out of you? Once somebody has an answer, you’ll make the list of “What’s Trending” in the True Crime category, or maybe on GhostHunters if nobody ever found you. To the sole survivor, or the mother investigating a bloodbath on her own—I think I might love you too. Another restraining order, another makeup compact spattered with unidentifiable blood, another casting agency of models making the most of their screen time to play the most undesirable imitation game. Smile like Kathy. Hold your shoulders back like Adeline. Remember, your body is now shared violence—all a façade for the viewer’s entertainment—but remember, it’s okay—I’m still in love with every last one of you.

 (when you go) Lobster Fishing on a Waterless Planet

You will remember to bring the traps. Set your alarm for the twenty-fifth hour. Pack a cavernous freezer with anything you could need. Rubber nets. Bait that ignores gravity. A shoebox of clouds. Ropes, plural. Beneath the steering wheel, you will almost hear the skeletons of wrought iron cages bumping against each other. So close to sound. This is safe. You will yank the ripcord and unspool a couple feet of tubing. Uncoil that snake-ish body anchoring you to the radium dock. Pray the rudder bends in the direction necessary for sendoff. Once, there was almost water here. When your boat sputters along the blanket of air, hum silently to nobody in particular. The lobsters will dangle above and around you, as if dumped into the air from massive, invisible salt-and-pepper shakers. Thousands of blood-colored crustaceans, sprinkled for the taking. And you will wait. Free the icebox container of its lid and take a mental inventory. Scan your supplies a few times over. Try to cage the airborne creatures. Hook your fingers around a string of braided burlap before lifting it. You will release your breath once, then again. Attach this rope to the precarious trap. Attach it to the edge of the railing muddied with your fingerprints. When you thrust a handful of shine into the cage, it will become sullied and tasteless. The lobsters will not fall for it. Cast your empty box into a place painted with fog. Broken stardust. Atmosphere. The opposite of wet. You will wait for something holy, knowing it will never come.