At the end there were straws <br />in her glove compartment, I'd split them open <br />to taste the familiar bitter residue, near the end <br />I ate all her Percodans, hungry to know <br />how far they could take me. <br />A bottle of red wine each night moved her along <br />as she wrote, I feel too much, again and again. <br /> <br />You asked how and I said, Suicide, and you asked <br />how and I said, An overdose, and then <br />she shot herself, and your eyes filled <br />with wonder, so I added, In the chest, so you <br /> wouldn't think <br />her face was gone, and it mattered, somehow, <br />that you knew this. . . <br /> <br />Every year I'm eight years old and the world <br />is no longer safe. Our phone becomes unlisted, our mail <br />is kept in a box at the post office, <br />and my mother tells me always <br />leave a light on so it seems <br />someone is home. She finds a cop <br />for her next boyfriend, his hair <br />greasy, pushed back with his fingers. He lets me play <br />with his service revolver while they kiss <br />on the couch. Cars slowly fill the windows, and I aim, <br />making the noise with my mouth, in case it's them, <br />and when his back is hunched over her I aim <br />between his shoulder blades, silently, <br />in case it's him.<br /><br />Nick Flynn<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-asked-how-formerly-even-now-she-is-turning-s/
