poem: Corrina Bain

How the Corpse Was Known

I came into all this assuming you’d just treat me the way I wanted without ever
having to explain what I needed. This time, I won’t be so vague.
   - Ryan Jenkins in an email to Jasmine Fiore, weeks before her murder.

Surprisingly, your given name. Fragrance, too thick in the air
your teeth and fingers stolen, proof he’d planned
The police carried you somewhere clean, cold, the
Breasts’ architecture undone in the clear stadium light

your teeth and fingers, stolen. Proof He’d planned
to have you laid open, your body’s lies untold
breasts’ architecture undone in the clear stadium light -
he’d loved that part of you, it brought him in

to have you. Laid open, your body’s lies untold –
sapphire contacts still blazing in your eyes.
He’d loved that. Part of you, it brought him in
to the “person of interest” file, oily gleam of his showman chest

sapphire contacts still blazing in your eyes,
your body, folded into the hot, dark suitcase.
In the “person of interest” file. Oily gleam of his showman chest
begging to be believed in, identified.

Your body, folded into the hot, dark suitcase
clear bags of silicone, their serial numbers
begging to be believed in, identified
tanned whip of your body he thought was his to ruin

clear bags of silicone, their serial numbers
naming him the one, thief of your breath
tanned whip of your body he thought was his to ruin
terrible heat of the season, Jasmine.

Naming him, the one, thief of your breath
The police carried you somewhere. Clean. Cold. The
Terrible heat of the season. Jasmine,
surprisingly, your given name. Fragrance too thick in the air.

CORRINA BAIN has worked as an assistant in a detox ward and an abortion clinic, as a rape crisis hotline counselor, and as a volunteer educator responding to the HIV/AIDS epidemic in Mozambique. She has performed with legends as diverse as Jim Carroll and Patricia Smith. A former member of multiple slam teams, she was showcased on Finals Stage at the National Poetry Slam in 2004. She is currently working on a collection about death and the feminine. Her work has appeared in issues of the November 3rd Club, decomP literary magazine, killauthor, and others. She was a 2009 nominee for the Pushcart Prize. Currently, she lives in Brooklyn, where she goes for walks and listens to sad songs. She can be reached via email at androidhime (at) yahoo (dot) com.