by Carrie Krucinski

God bless all the suicides,

the ones who got out when

they knew it was time.

The ones who were wise,

knowing there was no need

to wait for the touch of the sublime

right hand of their god.

I’m hopeless, a wasted romantic

tired of thinking up ways to die.

I’ve spent sleepless nights

on the psych ward, fourth floor,

pacing with all the others

caged for knowing better.

We are clairvoyant relics

of another age.  Dusty,

thrown out with the bath water,

we beat our flea-bitten wings.

 

Death starts in the eyes.

I see it in Ben’s eyes,

a pacing bipolar, disheveled,

looking for his wife

in the nurses’ station.   

She’s not been here

in two weeks; this brings him

to his knees; he begins to hide

pills in his cheeks.

Six months later, on the Dillard’s

escalator, I see him selling women’s

shoes. He wears long sleeves

on the hottest day in June.

I need to speak with him,

whisper in his ear,

I don’t care what you’re hiding

beneath your cufflinks.

My mother takes my arm

steering me towards the exit.

I read the obituaries

for the next three years.