A woman’s mirror, suicide handbook,
umbrella up against a tree (as if
she thought she might be coming back for it),
her peeled belt hanging from that lonely tree—
but where are bones? No evidence, just ghost—
She must have shaken out her purse before
she strapped herself into the sky, in case
anyone might come to look for her.
Maybe she painted her nails. Maybe she
was young like me, or old enough to be
my mother. Maybe she lived normally—
like anyone—went out to get fresh air,
to think alone, a quiet pilgrimage.
Behind her, tape—like streamers—tied to trees:
their reds and blues all people, hesitant
to leave the world they might still want just yet.