The sharp trident of mourning, reflecting in the

fluorescence,
punctures your spine as it pushes you along;
blood like silent rivers
running down your back while you cook your breakfast:
slightly burnt toast that makes you sob;
downpours.

Her death is a carbon blade to your neck today,
and tomorrow,
and, gleaming like a dentist’s smile,
it draws a line of blood, a marking in red
that shows the world where you’re breaking.

Your hands are writhing behind you,
tied up with angry, fraying rope
that abrades your wrists
as you try violently to brush your teeth.