Good Morning, Suicidal Ideation!

by Aleksandar Hemon

While that which exists exists, this morning
is far too much, though any less of it would
be unbearable. There is a weakness

in the chest that’s likely a fresh heartbreak.
Who’s to know if the flowers are happy
in their own shape, if the torpid cockroach

charging toward the door sees me rising,
has a feasible plan? I have had dreams,
awoke in pain to perceive the slanted

light, the world rearranged without
me while I’m still heavy and here, taking
up precious space. Should I arise, or stay

where I am, wait to see whether I will
molt or perish? But the cartoons will start
at eight, so someone needs to fling open

a window to that false world. The kids can
not know what is coming soon, they rely
on hope’s steady supply. For them, I will

pretend I must exist. Everything
will be fine, as cicadas can attest,
scattered on the sidewalks like refugees,

unshelled, undead, or, way up in the trees,
screeching out they are ready to fuck. Down
below, a pack of guide dogs on a practice walk

tighten the leashes of those few who know
what might be ahead, what they need or want.

Published on December 16, 2021