It wasn't the sirens or the woman who cried

It wasn't the sirens or the woman who cried

in the grainy 4:3 of the evening report.

It was the sound of the metal beginning to glide,

a long, jagged zip making everything short.

The plastic teeth bit on a loose piece of thread.

It’s a hardware store noise for the end of a life,

a mechanical click for the cold and the dead,

cutting the room like a dull kitchen knife.