Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Suicide


Don’t judge me
she says as I walk in.
I know love is a puzzle,
but her words confuse
more than usual as they fall
from blue lips.
What is she doing there,
on the floor,
wanting to be unmade?

Blood does not lie
as it streaks linoleum.
It doesn’t soak in.
It just leaks like a dropped cup
of coffee, a wasted taste
I lunge for, try to staunch
with a dishtowel.
It’s too late
the tree outside says.

Leaves drop like grief
onto wet ground.

© 2004 Christine Klocek-Lim - First published in "Ibbetson Street," Issue 18.

6 comments:

its_baxter said...

wow. this is really powerful..and sad.

Eric said...

i love the photograph and the poem is a very strong piece. very well done.

Pat Paulk said...

The first two lines really grip you to the end!! Love the photograph as well!

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Ruthanne, I'm glad you liked it. Thanks.

Eric, thank you for reading and your kind words. It means a lot.

Pat, thanks for your enthusiasm! I'm really happy you liked the poem and photo.

Nick Zegarac said...

Wonderful. A great enveloping work with a hard embittered shell but poignantly soft inside.

Christine Klocek-Lim said...

Nick, thanks for reading. You captured what I wanted this to mean exactly.