The length of time it takes to swallow  
a handful of pills is less than it takes  
to hang yourself, shoot yourself 
slit your wrists, or jump off a bridge. 
Based on hunch, assumption, rehearsal.  
Depending on when you start the clock,  
leap off the stolen motorcycle. 
Given the lack of scientific evidence,  
given anger and grief, an abundance  
of blame, imagined alternative scenarios. 

Given the hard, black seed of intention. 
Given the lack of funereal platitudes, 
implicit silence. Given pulse, no pulse.  
Given Jack with his fistful of beans  
and no instructions—just his mother’s  
disdain. Given the broken earpiece  
on the secret telephone. Given the echoing  
hurt, back-up singers disappearing behind  
you into silent shadow while you’re shouting  
into the mike get me out of this bad dream— 

miracle canceled due to weak sales, fire  
in the box office. Given the lack of generic  
substitutes and the overabundance of slurs. 
Given mad calculations—how many, how far,  
how fast, uninterrupted un-woken and— 
say it—unloved, based on lack of tremors  
in the delivery of water. The wait, and in the wait,  
the length of time greater than wingless flight,  
bombastic bullets, the bleeding, the sudden snag  
of rope. How much sharpening does a guillotine  

need? How much honing based on the scale  
weighing betrayal with the heavy thumb  
of rejection? Given the forethought and after 
thought regarding final notes. Given how long  
to fill in ovals on the final. Given brutal erasers,  
tearing paper. I could be wrong about timing,  
given my track record of losses. Given  
the proximity of falling bodies to my own— 
shared rooms, apartments, houses—why did I  
not catch a whiff? Given bad connections,  
static, given lost in the mail and return  
to sender. Given the time bomb of my own  
mad clock. Given the old math, of carry the one.  
Given stopping the count out of mercy  
or self-interest, or throwing in the towel,  
the judges’ scorecards melting in the immediate  
heat, the ring filled with flung debris,  
the grieving crowd’s furious booing,  
someone shouting that the fix was in. 
We, the living, pick up the chant.