Sinister Wisdom
| Copyright © 1993; All Rights Reserved by Author |
| Fire in the Woods, Flood in Town by Suzanne Sunshower |
| News quote: Studies have found that one in three teenage suicide attempts is tied to sexual confusion. for Andrea, 1963-1982 |
We could see the smoke for miles.
From my balcony I saw it clotting the sky.
I heard later how the flames leapt high -
an aroused, murderous beast
stretching to full height.
It was all shock effect,
staged to wake a staid New England town.
She had waited for hikers
to see her light the match
and touch it to her clothes; imprinting a horror
on their dreams eternally: her face
a ghostly white speck, framed in a halo of blazing hair,
her mouth opening and closing, shaping sounds
the hikers even now cannot forget.
From a blackened gas can found nearby
we were supposed to decipher the mystery of our crime.
The punishment had been the last clue.
Our message came in an envelope of fire:
We became her survivors and we would pay
for our inattention, our privileged
yankee neglect.
Chastened, wiser - we were sadly aware
it was now too late to do the right thing
whatever that would have been.
But with no words, no direction, no other clues
we spun in angry circles of blame
thinking, "if only...," and in the end
secretly wishing she had lived and died somewhere else.
When we spoke her name, guilt poured from our mouths
flooding the sidewalks in town
until we became a sodden, brooding people,
each of us alone paying for our own special crime;
marked by her pain.
To this day, I cannot help but feel
she must have planned it that way.
From my balcony I saw it clotting the sky.
I heard later how the flames leapt high -
an aroused, murderous beast
stretching to full height.
It was all shock effect,
staged to wake a staid New England town.
She had waited for hikers
to see her light the match
and touch it to her clothes; imprinting a horror
on their dreams eternally: her face
a ghostly white speck, framed in a halo of blazing hair,
her mouth opening and closing, shaping sounds
the hikers even now cannot forget.
From a blackened gas can found nearby
we were supposed to decipher the mystery of our crime.
The punishment had been the last clue.
Our message came in an envelope of fire:
We became her survivors and we would pay
for our inattention, our privileged
yankee neglect.
Chastened, wiser - we were sadly aware
it was now too late to do the right thing
whatever that would have been.
But with no words, no direction, no other clues
we spun in angry circles of blame
thinking, "if only...," and in the end
secretly wishing she had lived and died somewhere else.
When we spoke her name, guilt poured from our mouths
flooding the sidewalks in town
until we became a sodden, brooding people,
each of us alone paying for our own special crime;
marked by her pain.
To this day, I cannot help but feel
she must have planned it that way.
Contributor's Notes: This poem was written in 1982, in the wake of a suicide within my
community. I have learned much since then. One thing I know is that the last time a person
threatens suicide might just be your last chance to assist her in seeking help to save her life.
community. I have learned much since then. One thing I know is that the last time a person
threatens suicide might just be your last chance to assist her in seeking help to save her life.
