We gather in fall’s orange florescence to mournthe baby girl and be born again—twinnedout of gutters of our once tender skin.We talk to the nuns at the Laundromat, andat the box store we see the dual nature of things:the coroner’s Tupperware of legs,the dead frozen in sleeping bags, the Igloo cooler foundwith a four-year-old girl folded under Coke cans.It is now October. The trees are not a mellow gold, nota meditation on change, and we wonder about her mother.A detective’s wife bought the girl’s white burial dress.The nuns look past their soap flakes,there is beauty, they say, folding their old habits.After twenty-two years a cousin is arrested.The sun, the moon, their beautiful foxtrot moves us.Baby Hope is Anjélica, we learn—remote angel,little girl tied to a table at home. No.There is…
