i. 

It’s late July, we’re fourteen,

the sky an overripe strawberry.

 

We walk in nothing but bathing suits,

and a thin line circles his neck.

Before he choked out

the rope broke 

and set him free.

 

The waves crash 

around his definite body.

We chase after light

fading over horizon,

His heart sings out 

beneath the water:

Alive. 

Alive. 

Alive.

 

ii.

I walk into an empty house.

No grandma gardening,

no brother playing,

no Mom fidgeting with 

her hair in front of the mirror.

 

I stand flesh and blood 

and beating heart

inside my barebones home.

 

It would be so easy to jump 

Mom said a week ago.

 

Losing a parent to suicide 

makes children more likely to die 

by suicide themselves.

I am ten.

 

My heart sings fear

in the empty house.

 

iii.

What if I didn’t

hide the keys to the roof,

What if I didn’t

write poems.

What if I didn’t 

say I love you

and you didn’t

dare to say it first.

What if I didn’t

hang up.

What if you didn’t 

call 911, crumpled 

on the tile.

 

I count up every brilliant thing

that would cease to exist:

no grandma’s gardens

no brother’s games

no flesh, blood, and 

beating heart home 

no summer friends

chasing the horizon,

no hearts singing out 

as the stars emerge.