Etched

is the moment I reached

for that hot-pink cleaning slip

you were far too numb

to see.

The

cortège had arrived. You

were a small iron rod on cold

steps, void by

your side,

slip

stapled to black cuff

like a neon marquee. When

I reached to strip it, you

misread

the

intent – clutched

as from riptides

my hand.