Hey Hemingway, Chickenshit Check-Out

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Hey Hemingway, Chickenshit Check-Out

Why I have a right to these feelings

Was cleaning his shotgun
when it
accidentally went off
and blew his brains out,
said his wife.

He’d won the Nobel Prize
and was wealthy
and had been featured in lots
of magazines
because he was such a tough guy.

But, accidents happen
and it’s nice to have a 4th
and (as it so happened)
final wife
to clean up the mess.

When you’ve looked into the face
… of a loved one
who has just killed himself,
within that hour
and you’ve found the body,
you can criticize
suicide anytime you feel
like doing so.

And if someone
doesn’t like you doing that,
that’s fine
but keep in mind
unless they’ve gone through
the same horrors you have,
they don’t know shit about it.

I’ve written about this before,
written about it in nightmares
and staring out the window
through which I could first see
him hanging there,
and written about it
without writing a word
by the breaths I’m breathing
thinking about him
and remembering
that day
which no amount of writing
will ever fix or repair
of that moment
of looking into his face.

Posting today, the 25 anniversary of my beloved stepson’s suicide.

With Permission by artist Roy Carpenter, from his etched-glass tryptic Ghostbirds

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