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.