"My Death."
There is a fact in this poem, I was
born on Prince Edward Island.
I mentioned that in this poem.
It's perhaps the only true thing about the poem.
I don't know.
I'm out of water, and close the drawer.
Keep bumping up against it.
"My Death."
"Sadness, of course, and confusion.
The relatives gathered at the graveside
talking about the waste, and the weather mounting.
The rain moving in vague pillars offshore.
This is Prince Edward Island, I came back to my birthplace
to announce my death.
I said I would ride full gallop into the sea and not look back.
People were furious.
I told them about attempts I had made in the past.
How I starved in order to be the size of Lucille,
whom I loved to inhabit the cold space her body had taken.
They were shocked.
I went on about the time, I dove in a perfect arc that
filled with the sunshine of farewell,
and I fell head over shoulders into the river's thigh.
And about the time, I stood naked
in the snow pointing a pistol between my eyes.
And how when I fired my head bloomed into health, soon
I was alone.
Now I lie in the box of my making,
while the weather builds.
And the mourners shake their heads as if to write or to die.
I did not have to do either."