And then, I went to London.
I lived for an unhappy year with a woman intent
on doing herself harm.
Two poems about that.
"Escapology"
"A shallow cut lets the blood bead.
And you could charm red bracelets,
coax necklaces from nowhere.
You stashed blades like savings, pulled them out
with a flourish and a fan of silver.
Soon, it was ribbons from the wrist,
and sawing yourself in two, always trying to disappear.
Then the finale-- sedatives, restraints,
the escape-proof box, and you, lying there, a locked knife."
"After the overdose"
"What surprised me most?
Coming home to an open door, rose
petals everywhere, the bed, incongruous with blood;
the paramedics satchel, left behind in all the rush;
or you in the hospital, the crusted corners of your mouth,
the gown they'd put you in.
You never wore short sleeves, not since you burned a name
into your arm with cigarettes.
Or finally, that you weren't dead.
That surprised me, that regret."