Let three times in ten years be the charm,
this third suicide no aging trophy wife,
more an it-could-be-you-or-me kind of wife
who got lost in sorrow and shame,
her niece hit-and-run-from on the same day
the divorce decree came in the mail.
I want to say night draped its violet shawl
across the grass where she lay, but she lay naked,
sprawled. Gin, and a fistful of pills to maim
—was it the little-p or big-P?—pain.
All we know is, it’s happened again. And again
in our postcard town. Let three times be the charm
that lifts the bane. Or lays it on the men:
may you be left. Poison yourselves. Jump. Drown.