Notes From Her Suicidal Bed
by Christina M. Rau
Some days, putting metal in the microwave
seems like the best idea. In the morning,
it’s easy to forget your dreams.
In the night, too. Not smaller
not faster, never younger nor better.
Burn of Merlot, burn of Chardonnay,
burn of limes. Alkaline. Acidic.
Desperate chalk. The vertical blinds
separated after dusting to reveal
a peek at the Hudson. Through
red brick buildings. Mood music
in the background. The sound of
breaking glass. The color of salt.
These things have nothing to do with grief.