The Suicide



The Suicide     



bones. Does the animal’s

name not matter anymore?

They land, attendant. But only

after it seems there is no

movement. Should this dark

creature roll over, suddenly,

hoarse with pain, the birds

would flee for the trees

like children caught

in a strange house. Like sirens,

chasing something lost.

Not like bodies, mid-fall,

wings tucked close at

their sides. Following sound,

not a beast that can still rise.


There are birds, pedaling

through the open-throated

morning, the sky

still flushed. A horn, sirens,

in the distance. But not rain.

Just mist, burning off

like a woman disrobing: first

one shoulder, then

the whole. The birds,

black-feathered, circle

slowly, as if they hang

suspended by invisible strings.

On the ground, something

damaged—tied together, beaten,

pieces of collar and coffin




Chelsea Dingman has poems forthcoming in 2016 in Harpur Palate, The Adroit Journal, So to Speak, Quiddity, Grist: The Journal for Writers, The MacGuffin, The Raleigh Review, The Fourth River, and Sou’wester, among others. Her first book, Thaw, was a semi-finalist for the Philip Levine Poetry Prize and the Lexi Rudnitzky First Book Prize for Women. 


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