Reasons to Question the Official Verdict of Suicide
(“I thank you for love. I thank you for the weather.”)
The spike pounded in the beam, though long enough,
was too low. It had been there for years.
To hang a hat, a winter jacket, a shot
grouse meant to ripen.
After she swung the rope around it,
she had to bend her knees to slip her neck
inside the noose. Any time she could have
stood up straight and stopped the choking.
In her pocket they found a small notebook
of blue Moroccon leather, on a string
the stub of a pencil, sharpened.
This was Yelabuga, Siberia.
Where even the cold goes hungry.
On the stove half a pan
of cooked fish.