(Dedicated to the 500+ yearly suicides in Ireland)
Let’s say you have given all,
that time offers no truce.
& all that is left to give,
is a slice of your body, shaved
into ribbons, served in portions
to birds. Let’s say it’s her soft voice
bashing against your skull, or the calm
murmur of the river that begs
your surrender. Suppose you listen,
& the night above the bay
carves open the sea to offer a last
supper of salt & seaweed, so the boy
can drown with a full belly. You will not
be the first, nor the last to serve
up a slice of body. So you search
for answers, cutting away the bruises
from the fist of the morning that
dragged you here to kneel by the water’s
edge, a boy, lost & barefoot,
ready to walk across water.