Turning from the furnace, face flickering,
she asks if you're sure you want to do this,
and you whisper,
yes --

which is when her sadness reaches you,
rolling slow behind the words like thunder,

and you know
somehow
you've misunderstood
everything



She takes your shoulder gently, draws you close:
breath on your lips,
fingertips tracing down your windpipe,
dancing above your breastbone
where they stop, and tense,
and push --

Then hold still, she says,
hold very very still