hadn’t thought of dying for 93 days
but the counter’s back at 0
while waiting at the stoplight

“how easy it would be
to accelerate into the half-frozen river”

I both wanted it and did not want it,
the idea like kettle corn at the fair,
so crunchy and sweet, excessive,
so soon stale

“why today? why at all?”
my other half said

I had been doing good
remains of almond croissant fed
from new lover’s bank account
still dancing on my tastebuds

he kissed me in the open-air market,
held earbuds to my ear,
played a song by The Sugarcubes

oh, it was Motorcrash
that must be why
my foot is pressed firmly now

the last thought as I fly
over the embankment:
would Björk nursing me gently on
milk and biscuits be enough
to save me from the chemistry
of my mistakes?

but the answer never comes