For Jenny (1988-2010)*

When I picture killing myself
it is always with a gun. Always in
flashes. It is hard to look at yourself

in pieces. It had been years. My last
image of you is in a blue flower-printed
dress. I don’t know if it is real,

or if I built the dress to put you in. I found
out from my friend with the red curly hair.
Our friend. I was sure it has been an accident.

I’ve known accident before. It is easy to pray then,
knowing that you had the resolve to do this,
the prayers don’t come easily. My tongue

shakes; my hands are covered in thick mud. It pulls
them down. The strangest thing is the manner, the place
that you did it. It was how and where I would

have done it. An acquaintance named Katie once told
me a story of a man admitted to the institution.
He had planned the fiscal responsibilities, the day,

the time, the place, the how of killing himself so that
it would be the easiest on those he loves. In the secluded
park, when he was about to pull the trigger, cops en route

to find his body with note attached, a school bus of children arrived.
They were on a field trip to save his soul apparently, and
he checked himself in the next day. Katie explained calmly

that this man was crazy. Who could plan it out so meticulously?
I really had been wishing everyone did that. At least Ryan and I
were able to talk about it calmly. I was so worried that he would

**** himself. I still am. The questions I have for you are not
about white light. They are: what was it like waiting in the car, knowing
the poison was coming on, what was it like keeping the door closed?