would do well to remember everything
as if it happened backwards;
would be better off imagining
a place where a two-sentence note
dissolves into a pen in a sweaty,
unsteady hand, where gods pray
to despairing, middle-aged women,
where blood and bone gather
at that slight tremor
before pulling the trigger.
What else can they do?
Regret is a privilege
reserved for the living.
When all else fails,
one turns to the moon for answers.
When that fails still,
one closes her eyes
and puts a muzzle to her temple.
And those who are left behind
are better off imagining-
quick, quick-
take everything back,
before the withering
of all that they know,
all that is left to them:
the jagged pathways
between questioning and grief,
the vast, meandering silences,
their own small, small hearts,
whimpering.
