Why did my mother kill herself and I didn’t that year and have not?…I ask myself at the farmer’s market when David shows me the black radishes that I use in risotto or when Sarah takes me to the ranch and the horses press in on me so I’m nothing but warmth and breath and their snot on my hair. Is it this? Is this the reason?
Poet and Rumpus contributor Gabrielle Calvocoressi is starting a series on Best American Poetry‘s blog called “The Year I Didn’t Kill Myself,” because, she says simply, “I’d like to start a conversation.”
If the first entry is any indicator, it’s going to be almost unbearably beautiful.
