Altermath
By Andy Jackson
for the 60 people who suicide in Australia each week, 45 of whom are men*.
the rope ought to have frayed and unspun into a cloud of seed-threads
the branch, been split by sudden, grievous lightning
the tree, imploded in an outburst of splinters
black hole in an ordinary backyard
you wanted the suffering to end but instead it was dispersed, redistributed
to family, friends, neighbours, the first responders
when it happened, the fence between our houses
could have shot up and obscured the sight
we might have gone for a longer walk, a meandering drive down a scenic road,
or simply stayed inside all day, curtains drawn, oblivious
but you let go, dropped into air between us, became immense and disappeared,
landing in our chests
what right do I have to speak of you?
to turn this experience – a knife with no handle, all blade – into a poem?
what right do I have to be silent?
a million confessions, tangled questions, ought to spill out of the mouths of a thousand men
where has the cave in my chest
come from? what happened to
the sky? who will hold me?
employers might be more generous with sick leave, confusion leave, alienation leave
doctors, researchers, bureaucrats, social workers, friends, all of us
might know better how to respond to chronic pain, to rootless grief, that feeling
of being a body locked out of the living world
the ambulance might have moved on to the next house and the next and the next and the rest until the town was smothered with sirens, a fire-blanket of rageful compassion, an army of patient listening
but there is only this quietness – the sharp edges
of question-marks tucked deep into the postures
of friends and strangers –
your gift
The content of this poem may potentially trigger some readers. If you require mental health support or assistance, a list of free confidential 24/7 support lines can be found here. You are not alone in your journey.