|American Robin, photo by Dakota Lynch|
Robin’s sweet mockery is ended
his suicide gone viral overnight
and yet my lawn is still tended by
his namesakes’ search for food and delight.
Seeing them, I am in Robin-land
again with the animated genie
of Aladdin, seeing in art an
image of his vocal dexterity.
This is new, this identity of
robin redbreasts with the comedian—
I rarely identified with or loved
his characters’ opinions and means.
But, his death is new, too. It's making
me want reminders of him as if one
of his own students in the filming
of The Dead Poets’ Society.
His character was wrong to deliver
ecstasy with no authority, to
approve endings as if humans were
essays, to lead in and not to undo.
For me, also sixty-three, he is
too done. It is too soon to find hopeless
illness, to deny aging its run, to
choose to die rather than to live lifeless.
When it is my turn will I robin?
Will I line up with other early birds
to ease death, to catch this prize worm ina water glass and drink beyond words?
(One of my two BFFs says not to be surprised as those of our generation continue to choose this way out. But I will be surprised—not judgmental but surprised.)
Posted at Poetry Pantry #214, where you can see photos from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia by Kaykuala.
Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast