The Saving Moon
for Tommy, Neil, and Andy
The 5 a.m. dawn chorus and first light
accompany my questioning of "use".
A wavering pragmatist, today I might
unsheathe the Henckels, maybe Google noose,
or, thinking an ambiguous OD
would prove less hurtful—that is, if it works—
I may lay down my new G43
and take the catastrophic plunge with Percs.
But something holds me back—not Virgil's voice
of reason in the gruesome wood, nor threat
of other hells from other creeds. The choice,
though binary, is unresolved as yet.
I get up off my twisted, sweat-soaked sheet,
pull back the blackout curtains, open wide
my window to the silent, stifling heat
of noon, and take a desultory look outside.
A waning children's moon is riding high,
and as I monitor its certain climb,
I am the little girl who scanned the sky
back in a far-off place and distant time,
gazing through her spyglass telescope,
wonderstruck at marvels such as this.
I curse the knife, the gun, the pills, the rope,
and turn away—for now—from the abyss.