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Post-Suicide by Tara Calishain
published in Volume 2, Issue 4 on July 27, 1995

Fingers spread, gripping the cold
hips heavy on the plaster, head down
eyes clenched like fists, teeth showing
in a threat-grin, smiling at the floor.
 
   The phone's ringing. Who is it?
   I-don't-know-they-hung-up.
 
They'll find me in a fetal rictus
being born and protesting all along
a hydrogen bond is my only lover
to keep me flesh, agony, hips to floor.
 
    The phone's ringing. Who is it?
    I-don't-know-they-hung-up.
 
Now if it was a noise or something, a gun or howl
something they could examine
something they could pronounce incorrect
instead of this mosaic insanity
 
     The phone's ringing.
     Never mind
 
instead of this mosaic insanity
they could fix me but I hear
there's no cure for this.
I hear it makes your spine shrivel
I hear it makes your eyes turn colors
I hear it sets you in cancer for life.
Maybe if I freeze carefully
maybe if I make it a magic ceremony
maybe if I break without bothering anybody
No time like the present, no shrine like a carpet
Fingers digging through the weave
Eyes sealed and streaming
Face burrowed in the maelstrom
smiling at the floor.

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