Grief Anchors

We truck the anchors to the ice field before dawn,
calibration rings frosting like breath that chose a circle.
Entanglement hums; we align to her handwriting
on the star map annotated in biro, condensed milk on my tongue.

I call, and a version of her steps through the cold—
not steam, not code, but the feeling when a room fits you.
She says my name with the small impatience I miss.
My world ticks Δ0.05 and looks the same until it doesn’t.

Every summon drifts me further: traffic lights lag,
door codes forget me, my bank app blinks unrecognised.
At Δ0.12 the pamphlet warns you phase out of common law;
the post no longer lands; friends point a fraction left of me.

I keep the ring in my pocket and promise a taper.
Then a good day: we fix the hinge on the blue cupboard,
drink tea too sweet, watch the tin lid wobble to stillness.
The drift climbs like a shy tide around my calves.

Cut the line and rejoin the messy chorus,
or slide with her into a clean, private universe.
I press the ring to my lip. It stings. The anchors dim.
The cupboard door closes true on the first try.