She brings you through the door like damaged goods.
The counter knows your weight before the scale.
The counterman has seen this — how the veil
between possession and the thing one could
have kept is tissue-thin. She understood
exactly what she wanted. He names a sale
you’re worth: not quite enough to turn the tail
of one good month. She takes the cash. The flood

of daylight eats the doorframe where she stood.
You see the thumbprint clinging to her shoe —
the smallest trace of you she’ll carry out.
The counterman says nothing. He has seen
her trade before: the Incarnation, who
will keep her riskless, safe, beyond all doubt.
You stay. You know exactly what you mean.