Her seventh suicide,
attempts failed, saved,
the last by that medic
with the beard like Christ.

Thin sharp blade
against forearm,
the fingers shaking,
the eyes focused,
the voice of some French singer
in the background,
the red line,
the spurt of blood,
the walls, the bath,
splattered.

Seventh time lucky,
the water warm,
the water reddening,
the body becoming cold,
tired
she closes
her eyes,
is this how one dies?

Mother’s demise
with the cancerous crab
******* into her brain
and ******* up to pain.

She thinks on,
the French song
on the hifi
low, darkening.

That medic
brought her back
last time,
like some Lazarus,
back from the dark,
the unknown light,
the long night.

Seventh suicide,
attempts made,
unsuccessful,
buggered up,
teetering on the edge,
that time balanced
on the high office ledge
and that cop
with the Al Pacino look,
talked her in,
failed again.

Outside another day,
sound of pitter patter,
sound of rain.

Walt Whitman was picking
Apples out in the supermarket
Store, or so you thought you

Saw and stood and stared all
Awkward and scared. Such
Eyes and beard and hat and

The fingers turning over the
Apple rubbing the thumb over
The green flesh, bringing to

His nose and sniffing through
The huge moustache the apple’s
Scent. You stood a little back

Just beside the cans of beer
And bottled wine, watching
His every movement, his hat

And clothes, the way he slowly
Peered about with steady stare,
The hugeness, the larger than

Life just standing there with
One solitary apple held in view,
Offering it outward, saying to

You, take a bite lady, sure
Looks good, tell me what you
Think of the apple’s taste and

Smell and taking the apple to
Your mouth to bite with awkward
Care and looked up to say, it’s

Fine, but he wasn’t there, just
A sense of emptiness with scent
Of apples on the morning air.

And then I'm here,
and when I'm not here too

They walk past me,
and I see it in their faces,
the generations,
and their generations,
when they walk past me,
the worse-off
and the better,
they come too,

And they come,
and they come,
and in their faces
there are shades I can't name,
but every one of them is,
and everyone of them is
beautiful

And in their hearts
there are whispers,
whispers that speak in shapes
I can't measure,
but they whisper
pleasures,
and they whisper of their pains,
and they're not like mine,
and they're not unlike mine either,
and through them all,
they have, and I have
stayed strong,

And they've come here
and their strides have covered,
they do cover,
not distances,
not years,
but those joys and sorrows,

The joys and sorrows of many
yesterdays,
and they came from those many days
and those days flowed out
from many places,
from many places
that are now one, and that one
will go too,
into many,

There will be many
tomorrows,
and into many
tomorrows,
it and they will go,

And when they go there,
they'll go everywhere,

And when they go,
everywhere will be
one place
and nowhere,

And it's from there
they'll bring me back,
and it's to there I'll go
and I'm going there,
and I'm going there
again, with each of them.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.