Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.