The Suicide’s Wife
inhabits an invisible island
of last ditch attempts
and ancient consolations
where geyers belch
thermal vents hiss
messengers of silence arrive
she swam ashore nearly naked
hands scraped raw on coral
bra and panties soaked through
sand in her teeth
she’s no villainess
he loved her stubborn luster
a half written sonata
she slowly approaches
the condition of music
sure they argued sometimes
the word “argue” from latin
meaning to make clear
police ransacked his desk
the note turned up in his pocket
with the letter for his sister
a baseball ticket stub
receipts for two “taco platters”
part of a bookmark
he whose soul was bound with mine
six weeks later she looks great
thin and pearlescent, a statue
of justice sans blindfold
she wears beautiful blouses now
peach, gold, and seedling green
lushness follows destruction
sunset’s lurid tonight
cocktail of too many boozes
she’d like to switch it off
via remote but there’s no
antidote for celestial events
a frantic bat takes a wrong turn
from the attic, veers into the living
room, bounces off walls
a sick flut-thud each time it hits
the suicide’s wife grabs her roasting pan
climbs the kitchen counter to trap it
claps on the lid, then releases
the creature into the trees
where the lawn peters out
where the idea that at death
something is liberated
can flap blackly away
