My collarbone was damp cotton
as shuddering turned to heaving
and his limp neck sighed.
I figured the only advice
I could give was my
favorite handkerchief
and the repeated whispers of
“It’s going to be all right. It’s okay.”

In the artic air the puddle
on my shoulder
froze over and my coat wouldn’t
stay put without the silk
sliding around and folding
into origami cranes
that were pecking at my
head, asking incessantly
as to why I didn’t stay
in the garage and help
him on his half-finished

car. His heart was breaking
and for the rest of the
night my shirt was wet and cold.