in this land winning a lasting home.
—“The Battle of Brunanburh,” tr. J.R.R. Tolkien
Nothing should be this easy.
—“Zoloft,” by Maggie Dietz
Nothing is more noisome than knowledgeable people
believing themselves to be best at guiding
in grief.
Over that awful summer I ordered suicide
instructions from the internet,
favoring bags filled with floaty helium,
though I also thought then, of guns,
a lot.
An island assailed was I, with
my enemies amassed no obstacles for them,
my gates down. No guesses what
betrayals led to this.
Wielding first what looked well like logic:
Such a small island spake they,
so easily overwhelmed awash in waves,
Why defend it? Why defy us?
Why keep weaving? The wear can’t
be repaired.
Abdicate! This island an heir far
stronger requires,
your love a truer one. I lacked for arms.
It happened such harboring in a nearby
marketplace, gun merchants mailed flyers
for pistols. Buy pieces priced cheaply—
buy Berettas and Bauers, get Colts now.
Bullets stop brains stop brutalizing voices.
Then I
heard about helium a helper, gentle,
“exit bags” offering elegant solutions,
less cleanup for loving husbands
and chums.
But my
doctor had a drug, just developed, to help
in the battle, newly branded “Brintellix”—
brilliance + intelligence—trust big pharma
to come up with that.
Peeved, I thought it pointless, what good
could come of such chicanery? Courage! he said.
Not a wimp-out! A weapon!
My star-flame I should say I drew,
my sleep-monsters I fought. In sooth,
the medicine made me sea-sick.
I simply managed to stand up.
No halo lit my hair nor horn sounded,
no raging demons routed or retreated even.
No dragons expired.
Only I did not die.
After days enough not dying, I lived,
though lurking beyond limning waves,
shadowy flagless ships sound depths.