On Being Suicidal
When the body says no but you can’t stop swallowing
the circular yellow songs of corvids and cathartes.
I need your hands, not a kidney, not this mind nor muscular
grief of wolf caged up and alone. If only it could regurgitate
a new body from the femur of a deer. But we’ve lost our tongues
to birth such miracles. And now we live with language
inadequate to rebuild our sorrow-busted hearts. I need your hands
to keep the waning harvest moonlight from exposing this sanctuary
of carrion. How sad the song of nightingales I carry,
magpies reciting eulogies only I can hear.
When the cops showed up, I tried to make one hold me.
I begged him to share in this symphony but he said this was a wellness check.
If only he lifted me up into the tree, I’m sure I would have become a robin,
my rust-red breast burning a new morning into existence.
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