At the rhododendron garden she shows me
her wrist with its pale white scar. The blooms
bleed behind us in red, white and pink. It’s
not muggy yet, but soon the air will grow
heavy like the dark can do, moving over
you so much so that the blade or the gun
(which she once shot out a window, straight
into the dark’s heart) seems like a pleasant
escape. But she didn’t press hard enough,
didn’t turn the gun on herself, so she
sits next to me on this wooden bench, with
our lunch of peanut butter, grapes and chips.
She tells me her pain to witness, and I
and the rhododendron lean in to listen.