What did we not see when
he bought a simple rope,
at very large box store
testing hemp for stretch, for breaking point?
and when he took it home and wound it
around the brass bedpost, then around the newel
on his stairway and leaned
back as if water skiing on carpet
or when he showed it to his neighbor
bragging about what a good rope
it would be for all kinds of purposes
at a fair price
and when he scolded the dog for chewing
the end of it before he wrapped
that end in duct tape to preserve integrity
then when he climbed the stairs
to the dusty attic and shook his
head at the wicker bird cage and
the gray luggage his mother carried
for thirty years, filled with yellow
linens and birth certificates
and he pushed that all aside,
and took out the maple stool
his sister had used for milking
or said she once used for milking
he wasn’t sure
and then he hung the noose
from the debt ceiling, bragging to the dog
that he could hang him too
if the mutt didn’t stop nipping heels
and scratching at the door
and how was it that the first responders
arrived seconds before he kicked
that stool out from below his noose?
Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet.
