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.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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