She grasped his coat,
the coat he loved and always wore.
It stank of beer and coffee
and the waft of wind at dawn
on a sandy beach in summer.
She wiped her tears on its sleeve,
tutted, tearing at a loose button,
then bunched the fabric of the sleeve
and tore, at arm’s length
until it shredded, ripped asunder,
wrenched stitches, like a gasping wound.
Why, she screamed, at the torn garment,
why, she screamed again,
could you not see
that we were always destined
to rend ourselves apart?