Low
We called her Low
because she wasn’t too tall
and she was always depressed
She had an inevitable low
She shot herself on Sunday,
another station of the cross
Her casket was a head shy
She had an erratic ebb
We watched for fatalistic hieroglyphs —
must have been disappearing ink
I’d say, Low, let’s go dancing
and at first she’d say yes,
then she’d say no
Now I can’t look at her photos
and Ric can’t remember any of her clothes
But echoes of her laughter rain down from wherever
I shake them off
Because she won’t laugh,
exchange carbon & oxygen
with leaves from damp forest floors, Pablo,
— now she becomes them
And we walk right down the middle of the street
to avoid them,
the fallen leaves
Mary Kay Stam
 |
 |