She had the type of hair

that Maria Fredriksson

wore without apology,

not that she would ever need to,

not that any of us should be required

to utter,

Come not ye empty mourners,

I boldly cried out loud

in the safety of her stark office,

too young for personal effects

but complimentary on my tattoos

that straddle my arm

as if making the best of a bad deal,

a slight hand job with no verbal kissing,

no sweet talk, she took me to the edge