I have the photo still,

shot in glaring sunlight.

I was eighteen, wearing my teacher's cap

and gown and smiling

like I knew what was coming.

He had a shack at the end of the mesa, where

sagebrush rolled into the hot breeze.

A fly buzzed. Mosca I thought,

wondering how I knew that word.

I bit down on my finger

to stop the pain.

I married him, god help me.