the choice
 

The Surgery

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
Above, lights buzz. Grip loosening already,
his fist falls to the kitchen cutting board.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.

A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons
might feel the sharp point of. He would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*
previously posted draft:

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
The cutting board vibrates against the counter.

A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
his wife, or anyone he’s loved might feel
the sharp point of. By now he would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
one dank, unsteady hand in dinner’s gore,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*

The cutting board vibrates against the counter.
He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
A good world wouldn’t know of suicide.
To live would be the act, the world renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
his wife, or anyone he’s loved might feel
the sharp point of. By now he would be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands,
one dank, unsteady hand in dinner's gore,
regarding flatly his unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

*

first posted draft:

He stares into the blade and knows the world.
He won’t perform this surgery. Not ever—
another reason to disdain the smudge
mirrored so sharply in the unclean blade.
A good world wouldn’t breed a word for suicide.
To live would be the act, the choice. Renewed
each day, each breath. Or not. In such a world,
unbeing natural, there’d be no need
of knives or any gesture that his sons,
might feel the sharp point of. He’d now be gone
from that more friendly world. But here he stands
considering his own unclean reflection,
the hurt he’s done, which can’t be cut away.

I've added a line, hoping to clarify something I realized might be misleading.

A world in which unbeing is the natural state and where living is a choice you make with every breath. That’s a powerful idea. In that “more friendly” world you don’t have to take a knife to yourself to make it all stop, no worrying about the pain you might leave behind, only the moment to moment willing yourself into being. That’s a lot to think about.

I glanced at this very briefly last night, but didn't really get it. Coming back to it today, I think I do understand it, so perhaps the small change you made helped. It's a complicated thought process, and you keep it mysterious at first, which perhaps is the right way to approach this kind of material. After I finished it, I noticed how many of the early lines ended in a word that ends in "-d," which is a sharp consonant and therefore in tune with the idea of cutting. Toward the end, the last syllables are either unstressed or less sharp, so the idea of continuation is conveyed.

Susan

Hi, Max—

Non-suicidal self injury was not something I was aware of as an adolescent. When I trained to be a teacher in the 1970’s, it was still not well understood, and “cutting” was treated as suicidal behavior. In fact, it is more often an attempt to cope, albeit ineffectively, with emotional pain.
You capture this struggle in your poem. I wondered, though, how it might work if it were in first-person instead of being told by an impersonal N.

One nit (since you posted this in Met): L5 has an extra foot because of the word “suicide.”

Hope this is helpful.

Glenn

Thank you, Joe, Susan, and Glenn!

The poem doesn't seem to make the ground situation clear. Readers are seeing at least two different situations. For me to say what was intended might skew others' readings. If others are kind enough to comment, I'll be eager to hear, in addition to any other comments, what they feel is going on, and what in the poem tells them so.

Many thanks!

Hi Max, I've been rereading this since you posted it and puzzling it out. My impression is that the "he" in the poem is contemplating suicide, but with the knowledge that it's something he won't ever do. That seems pretty clear. I personally don't see this as being about non-suicidal self-harm. It also seems to me (though I could be mistaken) that he is struggling with guilt or remorse for something he's done (hence "the hurt he's done" and his "unclean reflection"), and that that may have prompted his thoughts about suicide.

Some questions I have - is he actually a surgeon, possibly even performing surgery in the OR as this is going through his mind? What is the "smudge" mirrored in the blade - his face?

I agree with Joe that the concept of a world in which continuing to exist is the choice, rather than the default, is a powerful one.

Hi, Max!

Like Hilary, I took the poem's scenario to be the recurring suicidal thoughts of a person who would never actually act on them, but who still longs for his misery and self-loathing to be over.

My favorite bit is "the smudge / mirrored", which sets up the revelations — well, more like hints, since nothing specific is actually revealed, which I like — to follow.

My least favorite bit is L5, which not only has an extra foot, but also doesn't do the best possible job of presenting the idea of two worlds (the one he's in and the idealized one, which may or may not be an afterlife).

Thank you, Hilary and Julie! I appreciate knowing how you're reading this. Maybe others will chime in, too.

That extra foot has now bothered two readers, so I've revised the line.

Good change to L5. I read the poem the way Hilary and Julie did.

Susan