Chris Hosea and Kim Bennett

“David Okrent, called by his many friends “Oak,” died in a suicide in March 1998, at Revere Beach near Boston. The poems and drawings that follow come from a collaborative elegy that consists of forty paired lyrics and ink-and-wash drawings. This work is inspired by David and is dedicated to his memory.”


Kim Bennett. <em>1</em>, 2007, ink on paper, 5 x 7 in. From <em>Oak</em>, a collaboration with poet Chris Hosea. Courtesy of the artist.
I want to throw myself under the train, he told me.
It was hard to establish exactly when he boarded the T
the night before the police used one of the house’s rooms
to conduct interviews. He told he sometimes shut his eyes
on platforms, rocked his heels, feeling
the way the subway pushed ahead a warm breeze
sweet as mildewed bread. Actually, he said nothing
about the breeze or smell, but he did mention the comfort
of thinking he could bring the end with a quick move.
To my memory, we held these talks after dark,
after drinks and slipshod hilarity. I told him to see someone
qualified. I said I would make an appointment.
He changed to a different subject, and I did not persist.
There are generations of suicide in my family,
proud men who with precision blew open their own skulls,
yet I was as ready as anyone to believe he had improved
with the first melting of the snows. The detective asked me
when I had seen him last. I remembered the final time
I heard him. There was a party at the house,
and the guests had filtered home. Lights out,
I was naked in bed with a girl and he came knocking,
whispering, then shouting about his gloves.
To my shame, I snuggled and stifled giggles
until the pleading and pounding ended
and with his footsteps he faded from our thoughts.
Did I know if he had any enemies?
(The police were ruling out a murder theory.)
It was March madness, and though I was no fan
my room got the best reception. Some kids brought their set
and a case of beer. I was too near-sighted to make out the score,
much less follow the elaborate dance of passes and jumps.
The boys were howling at the screen as if electrocuted, all except him.
I slouched on the futon like a punctured balloon.
Where did you get that knife? he asked me.
(It was a large Swiss jackknife, bright red.)
Oh, I don’t know, in Paris, I think.
Where can I get one like it?
I have no idea.
I didn’t ask him why or what for.
I felt a mild irritation, as though stuck in traffic,
and looked up at the blurry tube.
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Posted in ISSUE #4 WINTER 2008 | Tagged , , | Leave a comment