The arm still makes an arc from elbow to wrist to knuckle
under the sunrise-tint skin,

its musk-rose bouquet. I know what you are thinking: not
another poem where the subject is

I     I     I summed up by a body part—usually, head or heart
—but this time you’re wrong:

the “I” who was here is the skipped-town, flown-coop ghost
of this poem. No one’s seen her

since the trap tripped, its steel bar swung home, and she knew
she’d do what she had to do

to anyone or thing that stood, as it were, between her
and her freedom.