the writer we love hangs himself
in the basement where he knows
his wife will find him first

years pass

one day between updates and
backward glances my mother
asks me if i know why he did that
if he loved her, why?

i tell her i don't know but
i think when the whole wide world
never stops seeming to bare its teeth
what you want is a safety

the basement of his heart-match
dead weight in the dark knowing
that was the one place he could
do anything
and still be loved

i picture it often, overstep my
boundaries and pretend the
itchy fray scrapes my throat
(again)
my hand curled barely full
around the braid overhead

maybe i was wrong

it never feels safe
but then again
i have no basement to do it in