Identifying the body

In the crisp blue light of the TV
she had turned to me and asked if
I would be able to remember
any unique marks on her skin
if I ever needed to identify her body.
The question swam close,
but I could not reel in an answer,
could not produce the words
of the parts I had photographed,
held, tasted.

In the indigo glow she lifted her
sweater, pointed to an almost nonexistent
plum-coloured patch on the side of her ribcage,
close to her breast: the shape of a foggy
Newfoundland in the ocean of skin.
Of course, I always knew that it was there,
never thought about it. Until now

when the sheet is pulled back
and under the marbleblue arm
lies a cold island and a freckle:
the distinct and unforgivable
mark of St. Johns.