Romance
When I decide on suicide, I’ll eat
The moon; no gassing of myself with hose
Stretched from exhaust pipe to the driver’s seat
(Through taped up window) so sleeping-pill nose
Can snuff in all that carbon monoxide.
I will not build a guillotine and sleep
With neck in place, set timer by my side.
Too messy for the relatives. No, I’d
Much rather tongue the crescent moon and slice
My greedy tongue and drown my soul in blood,
Or swallow one whole golden moon, entice
It down—and turn its dust, my spit to mud.
When I decide to die, I’ll look above.
I’ll lick the lunar surface, choke on love.