Two Years After Committing Suicide
your rooted family
planted a birch
in loving memory of you
down the lane by my mailbox.
I see the tree every day,
but other brothers and sisters
may let it dim down
until they come to visit
and are greeted by
a red kerchief
blazing like a red sun
hanging on a barren branch.
None flinch, but none outrun
the memory
of the long night of weeping,
of our trying hard to understand,
of you filling yourself
with bullets—
first, from a medicine bottle
then, from an innocent gun.
You meant no harm to us,
but now I fear
a child’s child
may one day startle us
yet again
with dying leaves,
shriveling everything.
your rooted family
planted a birch
in loving memory of you
down the lane by my mailbox.
I see the tree every day,
but other brothers and sisters
may let it dim down
until they come to visit
and are greeted by
a red kerchief
blazing like a red sun
hanging on a barren branch.
None flinch, but none outrun
the memory
of the long night of weeping,
of our trying hard to understand,
of you filling yourself
with bullets—
first, from a medicine bottle
then, from an innocent gun.
You meant no harm to us,
but now I fear
a child’s child
may one day startle us
yet again
with dying leaves,
shriveling everything.