After Your Suicide, I Write This Poem

It wants you to stop although it knows you’ve already chosen the words gun barrel and throat. It does not like how they come together, cold, as you drop the phone and walk outside and sirens five miles away flash on. It wants you to wait eleven more minutes for the sun to rise before you decide to be done, forever, with the sky. See how this poem is already emptying the cup of the night and breaking the egg of the moon. See how already it is inflating the slow balloon of morning with violet and plum and rose gold. See, see how it sends up into the milk-pale blue the word beautiful, as if it could do me any good, as if it could make you pause for the ambulance tires to squeak out the stark bright simple words do you need help? do you need a doctor? and you do but you do it—and already in this poem the sun swells up but you’re gone.