Suicide
By Robert Lee
I am obsessed
with the image of death.
It plays
like a 24 hour news flash,
He has graduated,
took the leap,
climbed that hill.
The universe applauds.
I sit with my back to the tree,
it is solid,
holds no judgment
or opinion.
I hold the knife in my hand,
it has good weight,
its serrated blade
suited for its purpose.
I am reading Anne Sexton,
listening to Jimmie Hendrix.
I listen between the lines
for their screams,
the color of their pain.
I lay the knife against my wrist,
gently pull,
how much pressure
would it take,
would I scream in pain?
I press harder,
I want to see the color of pain.
A single drop,
like the dew
on a morning blade of grass.
It becomes quiet,
there are no voices,
no loss or despair,
only perfect silence.
I lay my arm on the ground,
my eyes blur,
I see blood
seeping into the earth.
My mind rejoices
with a chorus of
Oh sweet peace,
how long did I wait?
I'm coming home.
The music ends,
I am surprised
to be sitting
against a tree.
My wrist is bleeding.
There is a knife in my hand.
I am at perfect peace.
