Poem

A Shame

And so, at 2 am she got out of bed and went upstairs. She turned on the light, opened the junk drawer, and took out the rope.

And so, she unspooled the rope, noticed one frayed end, thought to trim it, but chose not to bother.

And so, she took the rope and flung it over one of the exposed beams in her attic living room and tugged on it, pulling with all her weight, testing the strength of it.

And so, she took the loose end and wrapped it around her neck till it resembled a priest’s collar, then pulled hard until it hurt.

And so, she adjusted the rope, pulled again, and this time there was less pain. In fact, it was oddly pleasing.

And so, she pulled tighter and tighter, felt the pulsing of the carotid artery, and began to feel a calming sensation wash over her.

And so, she continued until the feeling of calmness became wooziness, and with the wooziness her body began swaying.

And so, she was satisfied, knowing that there was possibly an exit strategy if this wish to disappear persisted.

And so, she pulled the rope from the beam, coiled it back up, and returned it to the kitchen junk drawer.

And so, she went back downstairs, holding her hand to her throat where it hurt from her first rehearsal.

And so, she went to the bathroom, turned on the light, looked in the mirror for bruising or burn marks, and found none.

And so, she regarded the face in the mirror and saw the not unattractive face of a woman framed with streaked-blond and brown curls.

And so, she thought: What a shame it would be. . .