poetry IN OUR VERY COLD TOWN by Curtis Tompkins the mayor’s daughter killed herself last night across the street in her parents’ victorian next door to the only funeral home in town and we don’t know why she chose the garage while they were away at a soccer game, don’t even know yet how she did it: in the car with clouds of poison or with a revolver at her heart in the only place without carpet where her blood would pool next to a drain, at least, and be washed away easily as a last sign of consideration, not leaving too awful a mess, one last meager gesture of knowing every step hurts something, be it microbes or your spouse or the sun—she could not escape the sorrow it would bring, couldn’t even leave a note on the door saying, Don’t come in I’ve killed myself, because they would come crashing through, needing to see her stiff and alone, the way I imagine she stayed those last cold months maybe because summer wasn’t long enough, wasn’t hot enough, and the fall started with rain & snow, and she said god damn it no, not one more, not one more cold floor in the night, not one more frozen sunrise above the funeral parlor next door.
anderbo.com fiction poetry "fact" photography masthead guidelines |