I never met
my mother’s second cousin
know her only in the context
of one stark image
designer clothes folded
and stacked into a pile
neat as the edges
of an arranged marriage
right down to the bra and knickers
smalls my grandmother
would have called them
I imagine the whole affair
topped off with impractical shoes
and a real gold watch
she walked into the ocean
and never looked back
now and then beach combing
I am struck
by the inevitability of such an image
a woman turning away from
or towards herself
all the trappings in the end
useless as a velvet lined coffin