A group of five writers
sitting at a table on the patio of an Irish pub
on a glorious June afternoon.
Easy conversation floating on the breeze
like an exhausted butterfly gliding,
too tired to flap its wings.
Dark clouds rush in
and chase them to a table inside
where they stay, even after the dark clouds move out,
and the sky grows bright,
when the subject of suicide comes up.
One of them casually mentions a half-hearted
attempt as a teenager,
another describes in detail how Sylvia Plath locked herself
in the kitchen and put
towels under the door.
Another remarks that pills more often than not
fail, leading only to vomiting and pumped stomachs.
The only certain way to do it is with a gun,
and someone else points out
that men tend to use guns more than women do,
as if that were profound.
I contribute nothing to the conversation
because I know nothing about suicide.
Instead I watch through the window
as you glide by on the breeze,
orange and black,
too tired to flap your wings.