In Colombia, we could feel the soursop
drop, heavy bodied, like wet towels,
against roots or soil. Skin opened
to expose dark seeds, white pulp.
Carla tells me she cant sleep. A twig leg
hangs from the nightlight where she saw
one roach swallow another. With her eyes closed,
she sees them molt
and in their crystal state crawl on her bed.
In 1947, twenty-three-year old Evelyn The Most Beautiful
Suicide landed on a limo, as if stretched on a bed, fingers
still tinkering with her pearls. Tell my father, I have too many
of my mothers tendencies, her note said.
Years later, a wind gust pushed Elvita
onto the 85th floor, after jumping
from the 86th. She landed with just a broken hip.
When I found out mother had died, I was waiting for a flight
to her. Her mind shut, lungs stopped. She was alone.
What do people look like, when they hit the ground?
The first suicide off the Empire State Building
was a laid off employee. He jumped into an empty
shaft before the building was complete,
before there were ticket booths or cameras.
No gust of wind, no fence, no netting on the flight
to Sonoma. Apples against the roof of my father-in-laws house,
others on the pebbled garden. Only one or two
will make it to the kitchen.
Aaron sits shoulder strong folding wings.
We drink local wine in his fathers room.
A fine California red, that tastes
like my mothers death.
His father takes small sips from an oxygen tank.
I climb stairs for no reason.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 45 | Spring 2015