My father’s father drove to the desert, shot himself
twice in the head, left his wife only his wallet, his watch,
no note or money, no plan to carry her.
I’ve talked friends into staying,
told students that I won’t glorify suicide
in poems, that if they say they’re going
to hurt themselves, I’ll report them.
Even after years of the pills working,
years after leaving that church,
after telling friends I used to wake up
and make the decision, every day, between
going to work or killing myself, there’s that part of me
that I’m not supposed to talk about, that keeps
those who love me awake at night.
I can still read about someone who cashed it in,
who called it all off, and I think: so lucky.