The
first suicide is unique.
They
always ask you if it was an accident
or a
sincere proposition of death.
They
shove a tube up your nose,
hard,
so
it hurts
and
you learn to not disturb the neighbors.
When
you begin to explain that
death-actually-seemed-like-the-only-way-out
or
that you did it
to-fuck-up-your-husband-and-your-family
they
have all turned their backs
and
are watching the transparent tube
retrieving
the parade of your last supper.
Betting
on whether its noodles or fried rice.
The doctor
on duty coldly tells them:
it’s
grated carrot.
“Disgusting”,
say the nurse with big lips.
They
disposed of me furiously,
because
no one won the bet.
The saline
dispersed quickly
and
ten minutes later,
I
was back at my house.
No space
to mourn
nor
time to feel cold and tremble.
People
are unconcerned with death that comes from loving too much.
Child’s
play,
they
say,
as
if children killed themselves every day.
I looked
in Hammett for this exact page:
never
tell a word about your life
in
any book,
if
you can help it.
Miyó Vestrini (1938-1991).
“Grenade in mouth: some poems of Miyó Vestrini. 2019. Chicago: Kenning
Editions.
