Prayer of intercession for the suicide support group
For the mothers who cry the most and their
faces are crumpled flowers. For the fathers who suddenly
get up and leave the room. For the wives who hold a fracture
together for fatherless children. For the sisters who cannot forgive
themselves. For the brother who tells
everyone, because everyone should know.
For the grandfather who says it is with him
every morning when he wakes, every night when he lies down.
For the finders.
For the details no one tells you, like a virus waiting in the cells.
For the houses we moved out of, for the furniture given away,
for the handwriting like a scar, for the text messages lost,
for the box you emptied frantically and never found the photo.
For the telling, the telling, the telling, until we are too
tired. For the saving lie.
For the ruthless incision into a nothing complete nothing accrued
nothing retrieved. For the salted earth. For the daily work
of comprehension, indivisible.
Remember when I said the mothers cry the most? That’s a lie.
We all cry like we can finally
use up the air.
Jeanne Obbard received her bachelor’s degree in feminist and gender studies from Bryn Mawr College, and works in clinical trial management. A 2001 Leeway Seedling Award recipient, her poetry has appeared in Barrow Street, Cider Press Review, IthacaLit, and The Moth, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart awards. She is a poetry reader and reviewer for Drunk Monkeys, and can be found on the web at jeanneobbard.com.