The Suicide's Wife
By Amy Gerstler
lives on an island
of last-ditch attempts
and ancient consolations
after the shipwreck
she swam ashore near naked
hands scraped raw on coral
bra and panties soaked through
sand in her teeth
lapped by aftermath
lying exhausted
slowly approaching
the condition of music
he loved her stubborn luster
sure they argued sometimes
the word "argue" from Latin
meaning to make clear
while she sat quietly
in the wing chair
her eyes closed
police ransacked his desk
the note turned up in his pocket
with the letter for his sister
a baseball ticket stub
receipts for two "taco platters"
he whose soul was bound up with mine
and part of a bookmark
six weeks later she looks great
thin and translucent
a statue of justice sans blindfold
she wears beautiful blouses now
peach, gold, seedling green
her complexion
has never been better
lushness nips at the heels
of destruction
tonight's lurid sunset's
a cocktail of too many boozes
she'd like to switch it off
via remote control
but there's no antidote
for celestial events
a frantic bat takes a wrong turn
from the attic veers
into her living
room, bounces off walls
a sick flut-thud each time it hits
the suicide's wife
pulls out her roasting pan
climbs the kitchen counter
teeters and grabs
for twenty minutes
at last claps on the lid
walks her prize outside
releases the creature
into the trees
where the lawn peters out
where the idea that at death
something is liberated
can flap blackly away.
Copyright Credit: "The Suicide’s Wife" from Scattered at Sea by Amy Gerstler, copyright © 2015 by Amy Gerstler. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.