I can I say it's a poem about that. And people are like, what it is, this is one of those poems that I use to talk to my creative writing students actually about the act of revision. Because it went through so many revisions, it was a completely different poem, before it became this one. And of course, now not going to be able to find it very quickly. This makes me think like, Oh, my God, there are so many of these. I have so many poems. What about their does look great woman. Yeah, as I as I was saying, it went through many, many revisions, I wanted so much to tell a story about her because there isn't one. They don't know why she was in the tar pits. There are theories about it. When they first found her, there was a dog, also in the pits nearby. And for a while, they wondered if they had been buried together in some sort of, you know, weird burial or baby one was trying to rescue the other or something. But it turned out that the dog was from a different time period after they'd done some dating. So that theory went out the window. They didn't know if she wandered in if she had if she was blinded by the sun or had a headache or, or what they had no idea because she really is the only human they found in there. Typically, you know, humans lived together and would be able to help each other out if somebody had wandered into one of these. So they had no idea. So my first versions of the poem, were trying to create different possibilities for why she would have been in the pits like maybe she was sacrificed. You know, maybe she was thrown in by a lover, she had made mad maybe she had committed suicide, or she had postpartum depression or like, who knew you know, and I, I was trying to create this poem that would fill in the story, but it was just too much. It was too explanatory, it was just too much so it condensed it down into something else in it. It's definitely a different idea, and is much less, maybe about the physicality of her and more about the idea of her but I will definitely read it to you. I did title it libreria woman, we tend to walk out into the abyss when there's nothing left to lose, not giving up. But an acceptance. Novels and movies teach us so the world is too hard. Love is lost. The air is thin, there are no more breaths to be taken. Pain is deep. There is no way out but forward into uncertain terrain. And so she walks slowly into the water. He pulls the helmet off and floats into space. She dives from the cliff he falls from the building's gray edge, she sinks, the undertow takes her by the hand the foot, he closes his eyes to forever sleep. She doesn't dodge the bullet. He doesn't take the antidote, there is no antidote. Perhaps on the edge of black sludge, the hydrogen sulfide gas and stench of rotting creatures and festing her very humanity, one foot already in a shining line of tar already up to her ankle. The LaBrea women made the only sensible choice, put one foot next to the other, and waited.