My brother, wanting to off himself,
Took rope into a summer park.
 
Rope, plus a knife
For cutting it: a serrated hawkbill,
 
Cushioned grip, with two-inch
Curved, ignoble blade
 
The manufacturers in their cruelty call
A lightweight
 
Meadowlark. Cruel because the meadowlark
Is calm. They’re calm
 
This morning. Sure, they shaggle the corn a bit,
But otherwise, when they’re done,
 
They perch on the fence in the golden sun,
Heads down as if they’re sleeping.

Related Poems

God's Will

Isn’t there a bird (what’s its name?)
that collects blue

things—bottle cap, rubber band,
bits of broken

cups—to make an elaborate, sparkling
blue nest on the ground. At

a meeting, a woman spoke of
her brother, who’d just

OD’d—teary,

she said she knew it was God’s
will. We all want to be held

a little higher. Bower

bird, that’s the name, it gathers
all that blue

& arranges it into a nest                               
to make the beloved, of course, 

want to stay.