We've touched suicide-
owned it at the expense
of afterthought.

And the word in itself
is like a day in August-
sticky and lingering,
as I stretch it through my understanding.

I measure the word with my tears,
the shapes, the lines, the curves-
embossing the face, now distant in space.

I sway in the wake
of hunched shoulders
and heaving diaphragms
and learn a lesson from the martyr
clothed in forgiveness.