All Creatures Great and Small
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.
About the Author
Carrie L. Krucinski earned her MFA from Ashland University. She resides in Elyria, Ohio where she teaches and tutors English at Lorain County Community College. Her work has appeared in, The Broken Plate, The Minetta Review, Bellevue Literature Review, Lehigh Valley Vanguard, The Stockholm Review of Literature, Critical Pass Review, and Hotel Amerika.