Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
– Amiri Baraka (American poet, 1934-2014)
This poem has a very dark title. Don't take it the wrong way – it's just a poem I happen to like. I will note, however, since it's on my mind: Michelle's suicide note was about 400 pages long, written out on loose sheets of unlined white paper. That could make 20 volumes, if the volumes were small.
[daily log: walking, 6.5km]