Tiff Holland

Positive Identification

Memorize all his parts, not just

lips, eyes, the intimate tools,

tiny erect nipples tangled in red

hair, the spot where you can most

easily imagine him as a mere boy.

Sure, count the freckles, the moles

you worry over, the pounds he frets, but

commit to his scent, to the pink scrapes

of knuckles where his skin becomes so

dry it cracks, and he superglues

himself back together.

Stroke the quarter-size Achilles-like

blond-spot on the back left of his other-

wise reddish, receding, head of hair. Freeze

in time his aura, above you, the last time

you make love

remember when he asked

what it felt like "going in"

him, going in to you

the serious voice you could never mistake

for anyone else’s, to say what lovers say

and sometimes tire of saying, or assume,

after time they needn’t say.

Never assume anyone is coming back

from just going out to get the mail

shirtless, in gym shorts and cheapo

Walmart tennis shoes covered in blue

paint speckles, his arm hairs wound into

sweaty rosettes, his whole body spiraled

tightly to itself and away, with heat

and humidity. You never know

the unknown, stare at:

what's a body doing in your yard?!!

The deputy says there's no identification

on him, no shirt, hands you a stack

of envelopes some with his name,

others with yours or both as well as dirty

tire tracks that match the dump truck

across the street, a County Sheriff circum-

navigating its rusty red body, with a shiny

aluminum citation holder, the pen moving,

up and down, even from a distance, you can

see check marks being made, words circled

as the white sheet billows down over your

officially unidentified husband

half units you called yourselves

when you worked in the cop shop

on his bed of grass. You’re asked

without being allowed to look. Every

one holds you back when you try to charge

over and around the split wide-open tree

to see for yourself, know certainty, so as to

definitively deny. Is it good to know Love

by skinny calves, socks that always roll down

a bit at the top, the exact shade of paint

flake and speckles, Jackson Pollocked

on the socks, the chapped knee caps,

the no-name shoes?

The faces of friends across the street make

the identification for you while the sheet flutters

billows, settles. You're in cooperation

answering from dealing with authority mode

all yes sirs and no sirs confirm, yes,

he's my husband, because who else

would be dead with your mail in your yard?

But thinking mine, mine,no! no! no

Tiff Holland's poetry and prose appear regularly in journals and anthologies. She is the author of the novella-in-flash "Betty Superman" and currently lives in Central Texas.