Last night a hand reached into my head
the way you reach into a box of tissues
on the nightstand when you have a cold—
that same casual, necessary pulling.
One after another, each layer of face
lifted clean and set aside.
A practiced self.
A professional self.
A protective self.
I didn’t mind, particularly.
It was the kind of thing you let happen
when you’ve been carrying so much for so long
that someone else’s hands feel like relief.
The hand was neither harsh nor hurried.
It worked with tenderness,
as though certainty
were tissue—
creased,
carried,
carefully released.