The Suicides

Softly they settle round me now,
gentle birds come home to roost,
dropping and shuffling one by one
onto the desk, open drawers,
heaped directories, nursing tracts.
They do not breath, but we might
be swapping breath, in for out,
so close they are, so present . They
are weightless, obviously, and yet,
so great their need or mine, we press
forehead to forehead one by one,
each for a second only, until
we have all touched. The hospital,
Victorian and beautiful, is still.
My list is cruel. Their various ends-
'Hanged.' 'Fell from a height.' 'Overdose.' etc.-
make for hard reading. Some were very young.
Many received the best of care. I sigh.
We, the Suicides and I, put down
our books, pens, burdens, leave the building.